You Can't Hide From Me, Clara
by IAmTheImpossibleGirl
Summary: This is a series of plots and one-shots that revolve around the 12th Doctor and his Impossible Girl, Clara. What will happen when the Doctor has to face down a horde of angry squirrels? When he gets sick and Clara has to take care of him? When he and Clara investigate the Hindenburg? Come find out! Whouffaldi-ness increases with each chapter. Skip to chap. 9 if you want oneshots.
1. Chapter 1: He Couldn't Say No

**Hello everyone; welcome to my first Doctor Who fanfiction! This takes place somewhere amidst the events of Season 8, when Danny is still alive. I have one or two real plots planned out that may take anywhere between ten and twenty chapters to complete. I will intersperse several cute and fluffy one shots in between them (prompts will be accepted for these, so if you have an idea you want me to write, let me know! And if you have a prompt that will fit into one of my longer plot lines, I can do that too). So don't worry, there will be PLENTY of cuteness and fluffiness! Many of you are probably wondering if this will be a Whouffaldi story or not. I can honestly say I'm not quite sure whether or not I ship them. It is up to you, the readers, to convince me either way. I do ship Whoufflé however, and there will be a Whoufflé one shot at some point, and more if I get prompts. Not sure how often I'll be able to update yet; hopefully a lot. This is sort of a tester chapter to see if people like it. If people do, I will be convinced to write more. Both positive and negative reviews are appreciated; I love constructive criticism!**

 **Enough blabbing from me. Let the story begin! Geronimo!**

 **Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Doctor Who, but if someone can find a way for me to own Matt Smith, please inform me immediately.**

 **"** Shut up, shut up, shut up." The Twelfth Doctor flapped his hands in a shushing gesture, quelling any comments from the petite, dark-haired woman who had just entered the TARDIS. He continued his frenetic pacing around the TARDIS console, not even bothering to offer her a greeting. "Whatever it is, go away. I'm busy."

Clara frowned at his even-ruder-than-usual attitude and raised an eyebrow, closing the TARDIS door behind her as she did so. "Well, hello to you too."

Raising his eyes to the heavens, the Doctor groaned loudly. "Humans! Why can't you see when someone wants to be left alone? Wait, hang on - your voice sounds familiar... that plumber I had in last week? No, not him... the bagel seller... the cucumber... nopety nope nope... ah, Clara! Clara, Clara, Clara! I knew that voice sounded familiar!"

"Excuse me," Clara demanded, "did you just compare me to a cucumber and a plumber? Where can you even find a bloody talking cucumber? And what kind of plumber would agree to fix the TARDIS?"

"You'd be surprised. And yes, I did compare you to a talking cucumber, which, by the way, you can find on exactly thirty-three different planets. You both have very similar voices: deep, sort of masculine, croaky..." His voice trailed away as he caught sight of Clara's unamused stare. "Yes, erm, I'm sure you get the picture. Anyway, now that you're here, what do you we say we - wait. Wait; stop talking; back up; how did you get in the TARDIS without a key?"

Affronted, Clara sniffed and crossed her arms. "I'm not answering till you give me a proper hello. And apologize for likening me to a cucumber." Her eyes glimmered with amusement, although her face was stern.

The Doctor finally halted in his tracks and turned to face her. "Yes, Clara, hello, good to see you and all that. Apologies about the cucumber, et cetera, et cetera. Now tell me how you got into the TARDIS without a key."

"Who says I didn't have a key?" Winking mischievously, Clara produced a silver TARDIS key from the depths of her dress pocket and displayed it in the palm of her hand.

"What? -give me that!" The Doctor snatched it from her hand and pocketed it, glaring at her with his bushy eyebrows furrowed angrily and looking for all the world like a giant pair of caterpillars perched upon his forehead. "Where did you get that?!"

"You shouldn't leave your stuff lying around, Doctor," Clara scolded him. "It was right there on one of the shelves. This is why you need me around, to clean up your messes and remind you to keep precious artifacts such as, I don't know, TARDIS keys, in safe places."

"... I see your point," the Doctor admitted after a brief pause. "Are you sure you don't work for me? You should. You're good. For a pudding-brained human, anyway."

"One hundred percent," she confirmed, choosing to ignore the insult. "Besides, you'd be a terrible boss. People usually don't abandon their employees in Germany for three entire days without money or any means of communication."

"That happened once, Clara!" Once!" The Doctor protested. "And I didn't abandon you... I simply forgot that you existed. There's a difference."

"Because that's so much better than abandoning me," Clara countered sardonically.

"Look, can we please move on?" the Doctor begged. "Now that you're here, I need your help with a thing."

Clara considered this for a moment before a wide smile broke out on her face. "Alright, fine. Let's do it. But there's something I have to tell you first."

"Are you going to tell me how you knew to find me here?" the Doctor inquired excitedly. "Because I was actually wondering that."

"Well... no, but since you asked, I just had a hunch."

"Rubbish. Human hunches have a history of being incredibly inaccurate. Usually. Anyway, I don't believe you."

Clara giggled. "You got me. Well, I don't know if you noticed, but every Wednesday at 2:42 you turn up inside this janitor's closet. So, every Wednesday at 2:42... here I am."

Astounded, the Doctor gaped at his companion. "You mean I'm getting predictable?"

"Yep."

"Time to change my ways," he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, that might be good. Anyway, back on topic. I was going to tell you that I'm renting out my flat for a bit."

The Doctor stared blankly at her for several seconds before answering. "Fascinating. Why did I need to know that?" He whirled around and strode briskly back to the console, preparing to set the TARDIS in motion.

Clara followed him at a slower pace. "Erm... well, I was hoping you might let me stay on the TARDIS for a while."

"Sorry, I wasn't really listening," the Doctor called absently, toggling switches and pushing buttons all the while, "but it sounded suspiciously like you said you wanted to live on the TARDIS for a while."

"For someone who wasn't listening, you seem to have heard what I said pretty well," Clara commented acidly.

The Doctor's hand paused in mid-air above a shiny black button as he slowly turned to face Clara. "Wait. You want to live in the TARDIS for a while. My TARDIS. With me."

"Yep. What do you think?"

"I think it's a terrible idea!" he informed her snippily. "I already have to deal with you much more often than is good for my health. And I couldn't stand having to live with and actually take care of a sixty-year-old woman. What torture!" He shuddered, distressed by the very idea.

"You aren't half rude," Clara told him incredulously. "And how many times? I'm twenty-four! Twenty-four, Doctor! Not sixty! Or even fifty!"

"Yes, well, try telling that to your mirror next time you look into it," the Doctor countered rudely. "See if you can fool yourself."

After grasping for a suitable comeback and finding herself unable to procure one (she wasn't even quite sure what he had meant; she only knew that it was an insult), Clara finally settled for stamping her foot. "Ugh! You're insufferable."

"Good. Now stop getting off topic. I am not having you in my TARDIS with me even for a couple weeks. It'll create too many problems... I can't... you won't be able to... it's just not..."

"You can't actually find a good reason for saying no, is what you mean," Clara prompted, her lips twitching in a smirk. "Admit it."

"Well... I..."

"You're just scared that something bad is going to happen to me, aren't you?" she teased him. "You have to admit it. I can see right through you, Doctor."

"I am not admitting that!" he protested loudly, wringing his hands in distress. "Not that there's anything to admit," he added hastily. "Because there really isn't. I don't like hugging, and you, Clara Oswald, are a hugger. I will not have you being affectionate towards me on a daily basis. That is why you can't stay with me."

Scoffing, Clara rolled her eyes. "We both know that's not why."

The Doctor crossed his arms and harrumphed, pointedly looking away. "My answer is no and that is final."

Clara shrugged nonchalantly. "Alright. That doesn't mean I have to abide by it, though." She sat down on the floor and stretched out her legs, clad in black leggings and a plaid skirt. "I'm not moving until you change your mind."

He gaped at her. "I could drag you out, you know. You're so fragile and teeny-tiny. I bet it wouldn't take more than a few seconds."

"You wouldn't dare!" The look of abject horror on her beautiful face almost made him laugh out loud, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Yeah, probably not," he admitted, reconsidering as he contemplated what she would do to him if he tried.

"And I'm still not leaving until you say yes, you great big idiot!" she informed him decisively. "So hurry up!"

The Doctor considered her petite figure, the obstinate set of her jaw, the fierce glare in the depths of her captivating chocolatey eyes. Clara was absolutely right: the only reason he refused to allow her to live in the TARDIS was because he feared for her safety. He couldn't help being worried about her. Their bond was too strong for him not to be: hers was the first face this face saw; the first source of light he found in the dark clouds that followed the mental anguish of regeneration. And she was his sole confidant; the one person who was always there when he needed her to be. He knew she could take care of herself - Clara was more stubborn than he himself was; she was capable and smart, she'd be fine. But he couldn't help the initial flare of worry that burned in his hearts whenever they set off on a new adventure, never knowing if they'd even come back alive. He couldn't help being overprotective. She was his Impossible Girl, his Clara, and he'd rather die than put her in harm's way.

On the other hand... his eleventh regeneration couldn't refuse Clara anything, and neither could he (except for hugs, of course. He had absolutely no problem refusing those). Something in his chest melted every time he beheld her beautiful eyes, every time she asked something from him. Unable to resist her plea, the Doctor made an instant decision. "All right, Clara. Fine. You can stay. But only until you're done renting out your flat. Then back you go, no complaints and no questions asked."

"I knew you'd come around!" Clara cheered triumphantly, getting to her feet. "It was the puppy-dog eyes, wasn't it? Puppy-dog eyes always work on you. You're secretly all sappy and soft-hearted." She instinctively reached to give him a hug but lowered her hands as the Doctor hastily shuffled away.

"No, your eyes just look creepy. They look they're about to shoot out of their sockets and fly all the way across the room. And I am not sappy," the Doctor told her firmly. "Pudding-brained and pudding-hearted; that's you humans. I'm a Time Lord. And I still don't see why I can't just take you into the future, when you're done renting out your flat, and drop you off. That would save all this hassle."

Clara wrinkled her nose. "That's boring! Why would I do that when I could stay in the TARDIS for a couple weeks?"

"You could also go stay with P.E.," the Doctor snickered, wiggling his hedgy eyebrows. "I'm sure he's got room for you."

"I'm not telling you again, he teaches Maths! And I can't just go say,'Hey, I'm living with you for a couple weeks, let me just pop over to my house and get my stuff!'

"You're right, you can't live with him; he wouldn't be able to tolerate your habit of needing three mirrors," the Doctor remembered. "I'd forgotten. And, on the topic of your face, I'm not sure it'll be able to fit through the door of the bedroom the TARDIS makes for you; it's far too wide. Also, I'll probably have to fashion a special door to fit your height."

"One more word about my face or my height, and you will suddenly find yourself without a tongue," Clara hissed, her eyes narrowed. "Are we clear? We'd better be clear, Mister."

"Oh, Clara..." the Doctor mused inwardly. A woman of extremes, capable of being sweet and loving one moment and ready to bite your face off the next. Really, there was no greater adventure then being with her. "We're clear, Doctor Oswald," he assured her aloud.

"Good. Then let's head back to my flat. I have to pack all my important stuff and get it in here before I put the flat up for rent."

"And then can we get to the thing I need you for?"

"Yes, yes, fine. We will. Now shut up."

Satisfied, the Doctor pulled a lever on the console, setting the TARDIS in motion. Within seconds they had landed in the middle of Clara's flat.

Clara gracefully descended the steps and opened the TARDIS doors, simultaneously stepping into her living room. Once she was fully outside, she turned around to face the Doctor, a sly smile creeping onto her face. "Oh, and Doctor? I'm not actually putting my flat up for rent. I just wanted an excuse to stay in the TARDIS for a couple weeks. And you've agreed to take me now, so you can't do anything about it." Clara giggled at the dumbstruck look on the Doctor's face. "See you in a bit!" She swung around and disappeared into her bedroom, her hair falling down her back in silky waves that were several shades lighter near the bottom.

The Doctor stared after her, struck by both her ingenuity and her audacity, but finding himself quite unable to be mad at her. He chuckled hoarsely to himself. Perhaps having her in the TARDIS wouldn't be so bad after all. "I wonder what I'd do without you, Clara..." he whispered to himself, a little louder than he had intended.

"Probably nothing much," came her muffled reply from the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2: Be More Stupid!

**Hey all; here's chapter 2! Sorry about any weird formatting or text; I haven't quite figured things out yet. Enjoy! Tell me what you think!**

Clara had packed all of her suitcases and carried them into the TARDIS in under half an hour (well, really, the Doctor had to carry them, while she 'supervised'). Their departure was delayed by another hour, though, because the TARDIS was intentionally reworking her interior so that all the suitable bedrooms for Clara kept changing their positions, making them impossible to find. Every time the Doctor and Clara neared a bedroom door, it vanished. "I told you this bloody snogbox doesn't like me," Clara complained bitterly, after yet another door had disappeared right in front of her eyes. "What did I even do?"

"Perhaps you've called her a bloody snogbox one too many times," the Doctor grunted, equally frustrated from the strain of having to lug four suitcases around with them (yes, four. He was certain that Clara had stuffed everything she owned in them; even pulling along two of them was like pulling an elephant. But he didn't dare to complain.) "How should I know?"

"Well, she's your TARDIS!"

The Doctor had no answer to this, so he turned left and dragged Clara down a long corridor lit with soft yellow lights that didn't seem to have a source. "Come on, maybe we'll find something good down here."

A door suddenly appeared on the left side of the corridor, no more than ten feet away. "Ah-hah!" the Doctor shouted triumphantly. "See? What did I tell you?"

"It's probably a trap," Clara warned him.

"Rubbish. She'd never set a trap for me." He reached out, hastily opened the door before it could vanish... and was rewarded with a wave of cold water that completely dowsed him.

"Pudding-brain," Clara mocked him. "You should listen to me more often."

Astonished and soaked to the skin, the Doctor could only stand still and gape at the door. "What...?! But - but - the water! Where did that even come from?"

"How should I know?" Clara replied teasingly. And then she gasped. Her suitcases had also been caught in the deluge and were now lying on the floor several feet away, their surfaces darkened by the water. "Aah! No!" She scurried forward and retrieved the suitcases. "Stupid snogbox!" She shook her fist at the air as the TARDIS groaned amusedly.

"Well, it is your fault, you know, for bringing so many suitcases," the Doctor pointed out.

Clara glowered at him. "If the contents of even one of these are damaged, I will have your head on a plate."

Rolling his eyes and throwing up his arms in the air, the Doctor declared, "This is useless. I'm sopping wet, and we haven't even found a bloody bedroom. Let's head back to the console room and deal with this later."

Uncomplainingly - she was more than willing to leave those evil corridors behind - Clara took hold of two of the suitcases and began pulling them back down the hall. Mercifully, the TARDIS decided to give them a break, and the Doctor was able to retrace their steps back to the console room without having the corridors change position.

When they reached the console room, Clara parked herself on the railing and crossed her arms. "Is it too much to ask to give me a bloody bedroom for a couple of weeks?" she demanded. "Seriously, what is the problem? Why does she hate me?"

The Doctor waved a hand dismissively, sending water droplets flying everywhere. "Forget the stupid bedroom; why d'you want to stay on here anyway? With only a grumpy old man for company?"

"Well, you certainly aren't selling me," Clara fired back. "And I can tell you're trying to get me to leave."

"Now, why on earth would you think that," he countered sarcastically.  
"Look, Doctor, I just need a break. I can't keep grading papers and teaching classes; I'm cracking. I'm exhausted. I need a vacation."

He gasped dramatically. "The English teacher wants a vacation in the middle of term! Time to sue!"

Despite herself, Clara's mouth twitched in a smile. "Shut up."

"If it's a vacation you'll want, it's a vacation you'll get," the Doctor told her firmly, deciding for the moment to stop teasing her. "So come on. Let's get to my thing."

"And we're just leaving my suitcases in the console room, then?"

"They'll be fine. Maybe a little bit of major damage when the TARDIS is in flight - maybe a bit of being flung against the wall and splitting in half from the impact - but nothing to worry about. I just hope you haven't got any underwear in there."

"And why is that?" she asked stonily.

"Well, I just told you. The suitcases could split in half. And a rain of panties and -"

"Okay, that is enough," she cut him off, her face red with embarrassment. "No more said. And my suitcases are not going to split in half, because I am going to hold them."

"That could work," the Doctor admitted with genuine surprise. "Hadn't thought of that."

Clara shook her head pityingly. "Of course you hadn't. Now come on. What do you need me for? Are we going to investigate the Hindenburg or something?"

The Doctor seemed to deflate. "What? How did you know?"

Clara perked up. "Wait, really? We're really going to investigate the Hindenburg?"

"Yes, we are! But - how did you know?" The Doctor was completely disgruntled. Clara had entirely spoiled his nice surprise.

She giggled. "That one was really just a lucky guess."

"No, you're too smart for your own good," the Doctor snapped.

"Oh, really?" Clara's eyes widened in mock horror. "I thought human hunches were 'incredibly inaccurate'? And we were all just pudding brains?"

"That was two hours ago!" he protested. "And I said usually!"

"Well, sorry I'm too smart for you. I'll try harder to be wrong next time."

"Please do. What exactly is the point of having companions if not for them to ooh and aah at my brilliance? You're supposed to be stupid!" He pulled a lever on the TARDIS's console and the unique TARDIS-in-flight sound groaned to life.

Clara's eyes glimmered in amusement as she gathered her suitcases around her in preparation for the journey through space and time. She couldn't resist a final dig. "Must be hard for me to be right for once, eh, Doctor?"

He did not deign to look at her.


	3. Chapter 3: Clarafication

**Hey everyone; sorry for the wait! Here is chapter 3! P.S. I have started referring to the Doctor as Twelve as well, just so you all know. It's tiresome having to write 'the Doctor' each time I need to refer to him.**

 **To TheFezWearer15: I will continue this as long as I can! :)**

They landed with a bang a few minutes later. "Alright, so where are we?" Clara asked.

"May 6, 1937, Hindenburg," Twelve answered shortly.

Her eyes widened. "Wait, but isn't that -"

"Yes, it is," he cut her off. "The Hindenburg is going to blow up in precisely five hours, three minutes, and ten seconds. And we're here to find out why."

"And if we don't find out in time?"

"What happens when you leave toast in the toaster too long?" the Doctor challenged.

Clara gulped. "Okay. Enough said. Don't want that happening to us. Let's go."

"First, you need to change. Get dressed for a party. Bring out the special effects. You'll need them to get people to talk."

Clare raised a pencil-then eyebrow. "Excuse me? What kind of talking am I going to be doing? What kind of woman do you think I am?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Hilarious. No, you're going to be trying to figure out the secrets of the Hindenburg. Does it have cargo other than people? If so, who put it there? Things like that."

"And what are you going to be doing while I..." she flailed her hands, searching for a word to aptly describe her task, "try to seduce people?"

Twelve smiled. "I am going to be scanning for alien life."

"You really think aliens made the Hindenburg blow up?" she challenged.

"Yes." He calmly met her gaze, chocolatey eyes against blue ones. "Now go change."

Clara scooped one of her suitcases into her arms, her strength belying her apparent musculature, and hurried off into the depths of the TARDIS, presumably to find a changing room somewhere. After ten minutes (during which the Doctor had spent his time twiddling his thumbs and sighing loudly - why did women take so long to get ready?) she reappeared from the corridor and set the suitcase down.

"What do you think?" Clara asked, smiling slyly as she spun in a circle to display the entirety of her outfit. She was wearing a slinky black dress that came to her knees. She'd evidently curled her hair (somehow managing to do it in ten minutes); it fell about her shoulders in waves of rich brown. Her shapely feet were tucked into high heels.

In short, she was beautiful.

"Well, you look fifty instead of sixty," the Doctor commented. Actually, he thought she looked ravishing, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "Put on some makeup though. That'll take a few more years off your face."

"Doctor," she hissed through gritted teeth,"I've got makeup."

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. Never mind then. Let's go."

"Wait, aren't you going to change?" Clara gestured to his waistcoat. "That coat looks like it came from an antique store in the Dark Ages."

Twelve stared at her with horror. "Oi! There's nothing wrong with my waistcoat!"

"I could go on for hours about what's wrong with your waistcoat, so we should really leave now."

The Doctor offered her his arm, trying to make up for his... well, 'makeup' comment. Smiling at him, Clara accepted it, placing her hand on top of his elbow as they exited the TARDIS.

Clara gasped as she took her first steps into the Hindenburg. She and the Doctor were standing inside an immense ballroom. Crystal chandeliers glittered from the ceiling several yards above their heads, casting light on the proceedings below. 1930's music was emanating from a corner where a band was set up. Couples crowded around it, dancing and talking amongst themselves. Waiters milled about the room, bearing platters of drinks and appetizers. Passengers were seated at a cluster of tables in the center of the room, laughing and playing poker. Large windows set into the left side of the room provided a view of clouds and fog.

Clara and Twelve weren't given much time to admire their surroundings, as a waiter approached them almost as soon as they had stepped out of the TARDIS. "Excuse me," he addressed them dreamily,"are you authorized to be here?" His eyes seemed glazed over and unfocused.

"Of course we are," Clara answered smoothly, patting the Doctor's arm. "I'm his parole officer. Just taking him for a little holiday. Thought it might get those genocidal thoughts out of his head, you know?"

Next to her, the Doctor closed his eyes and groaned.

Oddly, however, the man seemed completely unaffected. "Of course," he murmured. "That's quite alright then. Can I offer you drinks?"

"No, that's quite alright," the Doctor told him sharply. "Go away."

"Right away, sir." The waiter smiled at them and glided away into the crowd.

"Parole officer?" the Doctor breathed in Clara's ear. "Are you insane?"

"I was only joking!" she shot back. "Thought it'd be funny! But did you see him? He didn't ask for a passport or anything! He seemed totally okay with it! And what about his eyes? They were creepy!"

"I did see him," Twelve replied grimly. "Something's up here. I need clarafication. Let's go talk to someone else and see if we can get it."

Clara stared at him in disgust. "Did you just make a pun with my name?"

"Yes." He beamed at her.

"It wasn't funny."

He deflated. "Oh."

The two of them continued on their way, smiling at everyone who crossed their path. Although they all smiled back, their gazes were dreamy and out of focus, just like the waiter's.

"Oh, hello!" an old woman called to them, smiling warmly. She seemed more awake and lively than the others. She was clothed in a gaudy red evening dress and sported a large, feathery hat. "Haven't seen you two before."

The Doctor fumbled in his pocket for his physic paper and thrust it at her.

She squinted at it. "Doctor Oswald... and her husband," she read slowly. The Doctor's eyes widened with surprise.

"That's right," Clara chirped, proffering her hand. "Lovely to meet you, er..."

"Agatha," the woman smiled. "And you are?"

"Clara. Clara Oswald. And this is... my husband," she corrected herself hastily. She'd been about to make another joke, but she had remembered just in time that the psychic paper had already determined their identities.

"Nice to meet you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be... Hope to meet you again!" Agatha grinned at them one last time and strode away.

"Doctor Oswald and her husband!?" the Doctor shouted, earning several frowns from the passengers seated around him. "What?"

"You said the psychic paper shows people what they want to see. So maybe it showed me what I want to see," Clara smirked.

"You hacked the physic waves with your brain," the Doctor grumbled. "That is not possible."

"It is now," she countered. "But look; can we get a move on? If we're going to split up and investigate, we should do it now. Something's up."

"You're right. All these people seem... dead. Brainwashed. They aren't even giving the TARDIS a second glance. And something about Agatha seems fishy. All these unfocused people, and there she is, perfectly normal? I don't trust her. There's more to the Hindenburg's demise than meets the eye." He paused and then added with a roguish grin,"Let's go solve a mystery."


	4. Chapter 4: Run

**Hey all; here's Chapter 4! I was extremely rushed when writing this, so there are probably a million mistakes and gaping plot holes. Let me know if you see anything that should be changed. Also, there is one use of 'bloody hell' in this chapter... thought I would warn you just in case anyone is bothered by it.**

 **Note: this is for all the history geeks like me out there. If my memory serves me correctly, the Hindenburg only carried 36 people on its final flight, and I have made it seem like there are waaaaay more than that. Also, sadly, the Hindenburg was not bigger on the inside, so the immense dining room I described would actually not have been possible. I had to change some things when writing this to suit my purposes. So not everything you see here is historically accurate. Just so you all know.**

 **Anyway: allons-y! Hope you enjoy! Please read and review if you think it is worthy! (If not, don't worry about it.)**

 **Disclaimer (forgot about these little guys): I don't own Doctor Who... But I will someday.**

Clara strolled through the ballroom, eyeing the proceedings with interest. The Doctor had left her a while back, disappearing amidst the throngs of people, after ordering her to 'find out as much information as possible without doing anything stupid.'

 _I don't know why I put up with him, I really don't_ , Clara thought to herself. He was the most idiotic idiot she had ever met. But he was her Doctor, and she loved him anyway.

"Why, hello," a voice suddenly addressed her from behind. She spun around. The voice belonged to a handsome man with a thin, well-groomed mustache and dark, elegantly coiffed hair. Although he was smiling warmly, his piercing cerulean eyes were sharp and cold.

Clara shuddered. They were the eyes of a predator. "Hello," she answered uncertainly.

"Who might you be? I haven't seen you around here before." The man's voice carried a vague German accent.

"I'm Clara." She smiled sweetly at him, trying to draw his gaze away from her eyes, which were frantically scanning the room in search of an escape route.

"Charmed." The man bent, clasped her hand, and brushed his lips against it.

Clara nearly gagged. _Git. He didn't even ask me first!_ As he straightened again, she unobtrusively wiped her hand on her dress and cleared her throat. "So, erm... who are you?"

"I'm Fritz. Fritz Acker." He tipped her a wink and offered her his arm. "Care to get a drink with me?"

 _No, but I would care to slap you across the face_. Clara was disgusted by his pathetic attempts to flirt with her, and was prepared to politely decline his invitation. Then she remembered the Doctor's words: _Bring out the special effects. You'll need them to get people to talk._

She sighed. Although she hated to admit it, this was probably the best opportunity she would get to investigate. There was every possibility that he was in league with Agatha, judging by his alert and focused demeanor. Going with him would be a huge risk, but Clara knew that she had no way of knowing whether or not he was actually the enemy. Maybe - hopefully - he was just a stupid, infatuated man trying and failing to win her over, who had been luckier than the rest of the passengers and had retained most of his vigor.

 _Oh God, I hope this isn't the stupidest mistake I've ever made_. Forcing a smile, Clara accepted his outstretched hand, fear gripping her heart with its cold talons."I'd love to."

Fritz led her to a bar built into one of the walls. A young man was seated behind it, engaged in polishing a glass that was already so shiny it hurt to look at it. As Fritz approached with Clara in tow, the man eagerly jumped to his feet and set down the glass, seeming excited at the prospect of having something to do. "Good evening, what can I get for you?" he asked pleasantly. Although his voice seemed normal, his eyes were wandering and unfocused.

"I'll have a glass of Ratzeputz," Fritz replied.

 _What the bloody hell is that_? Clara wondered. She had the good sense not to ask that aloud, however, lest Fritz begin to suspect her. "I'll have one of those too, please."

The man behind the counter dipped his head in understanding and scuttled off to procure their order. "All complimentary," Fritz confided to Clara. "One of the many benefits of being a paying passenger."

Something about the emphasis he placed on the word 'paying' made Clara feel uncomfortable. Did he already suspect her of not being a passenger?

Much to her relief, before she was forced to change the subject, the barkeeper arrived with their drinks. He deposited them on the table and backed away, returning to his stool. Despite her worries, Clara was curious as to what Ratzeputz was, and took a tentative sip.

It took all of her willpower not to spit it out. Its alcohol content was so strong that it made her mouth tingle. The stuff was positively vile.

Eyes watering, Clara hastily set her drink down and pushed it away from her. Fritz burst out laughing. "Never had one before?"

"Suppose not," she agreed, cringing as the sourness of the liquid saturated her mouth.

"It's a special German brew," Fritz continued. "Which would explain why you've never had it. You're not from Germany, are you? Are you from England? Lancashire, perhaps? I wasn't aware that we had anyone from England on this ship."

"How did you know?" Clara demanded. Her heart was beating painfully against her ribcage. The conversation was taking a dangerous turn.

He emitted a bemused laugh. "Why, your accent, of course."

"Oh. Right." Clara felt stupid. Of course her accent would have given her away; why hadn't she thought of that?

"So... how did you get here?" Fritz inquired, sipping delicately at his beverage.

If there was anything Clara had to be thankful for at that moment, it was that the Doctor had taught her how to be an expert liar. "What do you mean by that question, Mr. Fritz?" she teased him playfully, attempting to sound flirty in order to make him forget his doubts about her, although she was thoroughly repulsed by the whole affair. "I got here just like you did. I bought a ticket. I'm going to visit my mum in New York. And as for why you haven't seen me before, I'm afraid I've been having to stay in my bedroom due to a little case of airsickness." She giggled girlishly and had to repress a shudder at her own apparent coquettishness.

The suspicion in Fritz's eyes melted away. "I'm sorry to hear that," he apologized smoothly. "But perhaps I can make you... forget... your airsickness for a time, yes?"

 _You disgusting pig_. Clara was horrified. _If you keep on like that, I'm going to punch you so hard your eyes will be lookin' out of the back of your head_.

Fritz, however, either ignored or was completely unaware of her discomfort. "Are you single?" he questioned hopefully.

Disturbed by the path that the conversation was taking, Clara decided that it was time to do what she did best: take control. "Maybe," she answered smilingly, her eyes twinkling with fun. "But enough about me. Tell me about yourself! What's your story? Why are you here?"

"There's not much to tell." Fritz downed the remainder of his drink in a single gulp. "I'm coming here on business, that's all. I'm a professional photographer. I've been asked to photograph New York City for a magazine."

"How exciting!" Clara clapped her hands enthusiastically, feigning interest. In reality, it was the most boring backstory that she had ever heard. Perhaps in the 1930's, being a professional photographer was the 'bee's knees', but in her day and age, when anyone could take professional pictures with their phones, it was quite the opposite.

"So, have you had any photographing opportunities on board?" Clara asked slyly, deciding to begin her investigation. "Anything exciting or weird you might have photographed?"

In an instant, Fritz's laid-back demeanor vanished. "Why do you ask?" His eyes were brighter and colder than a bird of prey's, and Clara knew that she had gone too far.

"Erm, well, there's not -" she stuttered, frantically attempting to fix her mistake.

"Do go on," he interrupted. "I'd love to know what you have to say."

With chilling certainty, Clara suddenly knew that Fritz was definitely in league with Agatha. He was aware that she was an imposter, a spy; thanks to her careless mishap, she had placed herself in jeopardy. She had asked too many questions, and now she was going to pay.

She had stumbled into her own trap, and there was no way out.

And then a hand fastened itself around Fritz's collar and yanked him aside. "Back off," a familiar voice spat in a harsh Scottish accent.

Right then, that voice was the most beautiful voice Clara had ever heard. That face, that beetling brow, that gray hair; just then, they were her favorite things in the world.

It was the Doctor. Her Doctor. He had shown up at just the right moment, as usual. He was there to help.

A crushing sense of relief grasped her. She threw her arms around him, burying her head in his waistcoat. "Doctor! Oh, Doctor!"

He awkwardly scooted backwards. "Yes, yes. I know. Stop that. Get off."

Clara finally released him. "Where've you been? It's been ages since you ditched me!"

"I didn't ditch you. And it's been exactly eight minutes. Doesn't sound like an age, does it?"

"Well, you're a bloody two-thousand year old Time Lord," Clara snapped. "Of course it's not an age to you. And you didn't have to deal with Mr. Fritz Acker over here." Now that she had confirmed Fritz was an enemy, she figured it was okay to insult him.

"Clara, listen to me, there is no Fritz Acker," the Doctor told her urgently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I checked the passenger records. There's no Agatha either. They don't exist. They're made up people."

"Made up by whom?" Clara asked.

 _By us_ , a soft voice hissed.

Clara gasped. Fritz's eyes were glowing with white light. The voice was not emanating from his mouth, but seemed to be coming from the air around him. It was so slow and deep that it seemed to make the ground vibrate. _We are the Conscious. We are Takers. We will Take you._

"Oh, this is bad," the Doctor murmured. "This is very bad." He sounded scared, which meant that something was very wrong indeed.

Terror clawed at Clara's heart as the voice continued. _You are the Doctor. And you are Clara. The Time Lord and the Impossible One. So many memories. We will have them all. So much strength. We will devour you both_.

On cue, the other people gathered in the ballroom simultaneously rose to their feet, wearing peaceful, dreamy smiles. Those engaged in activities such as dancing stopped whatever they were doing and dropped their arms to their sides, standing in a slightly hunched position. The room was as silent as though it had just experienced a snowfall.

"Clara?" the Doctor breathed into her ear.

"Yes?" she murmured back.

"Run."

 **Hope you all enjoyed the cliffhanger, haha. See you next time!**


	5. Chapter 5: The Conscious

**Hello everyone; here's chapter 5! (Finally!) Sorry for the wait. I have been immensely busy. But I wrote you am extra long chapter to make up for it. It's probably extremely confusing, because I'm not good at putting my ideas on paper, so let me know if you have any questions. I hope you enjoy!**

 **To my Guest reviewer: Thank you! Glad you are enjoying this!**

They didn't get very far.

The TARDIS was right there in the corner of the room, but it was blocked off by hordes of people under the control of the Conscious.

They almost made it. Both of them were running at an impossible speed. The TARDIS was twenty feet away... ten feet away...

And then a sallow-faced man with a bristly blonde mustache and unfocused blue eyes stuck out his leg. Clara tripped over it and stumbled to the floor, falling face-first with a grunt. She instantly began attempting to pick herself up, but it was too late. The man bent down and fastened his hand around her throat. Displaying an impossible amount of strength, he picked her up by her neck and held her in the air.

Clara's small body trembled as she tried in vain to force him to drop her, her feet scrabbling for a foothold. In desperation, she resorted to biting his hand. The man seemed to cringe, but did not relinquish his grasp.

The Doctor was watching the scene in horror. "Clara!" he called, his voice hoarse. "Clara!"

Her face was reddening from the damage to her windpipe, and her eyes were widened in fear. "Doc-tor!" she choked, her voice no more than a throaty gargle. "Go! Don't wait for me!"

"I am _not_ leaving you!" he shouted. "Listen to me, Conscious! Let her go! Just let her go!"

Fritz - or the human-shaped vessel for the Conscious that had once been called Fritz - leered at the Doctor. _Why would we do that_?

"Just... let her go, and you can have me too." The Doctor bowed his head in defeat, his voice cracking. "I'll surrender peacefully. Just... please. Drop her."

The man disdainfully released his hold on Clara. She crumpled to the floor, gasping and massaging her throat, her eyes watering with involuntary tears. "Doctor... no... why..." she croaked.

"Why? Because I'm the Doctor, and you're Clara. That's why." The Doctor narrowed his eyes at Fritz, his countenance so thunderous that Clara could practically hear lightning. Then he turned to face the crowd of passengers, his arms dramatically outspread. "So you've got us now. Me and Clara. Wouldn't hurt for you to answer some questions. How did you know I'm the Doctor?"

A hissing, slithering sort of sound emanated from the air around them. Clara shuddered as she realized that it was a laugh. _Easy. Your little friend here told us._

"I am _not_ little!" Clara cried, despite her aching throat.

Twelve groaned and slapped his forehead. "Of course. The Conscious are limited to the memories of the people they control. They can only know the information they have taken from others and heard around them. They didn't know who I was until you said my name... I mean, I've had experiences with the Conscious before, but never in this body." He paused and then added, "If you hadn't called me 'Doctor', we wouldn't be in this predicament."

"Well, how was I supposed to bloody know?" Clara shot back. "And besides, they'd probably have devoured our memories anyway, even if they didn't know who we were!"

Agatha slipped out of the crowd, her eyes the same glowing color as Fritz's. "So much spirit," she purred. Thankfully, she had retained her normal voice. "I can't _wait_ to eat you!"

Clara frowned. "Thanks, but _I_ can wait just fine." She suddenly let out a barely audible grasp and slid to the floor. "Ow... I feel faint..." Tears welled in her eyes. "My throat... it hurts so much..." A sob escaped her.

Agatha giggled maddeningly. "Perhaps I'll take a little bite now...? Just a teensy-weensy one?" Malice flickered in her eyes as she began to sidle closer to Clara.

"STOP!" the Doctor roared, his voice echoing throughout the dining hall. The possessed passengers shuffled uneasily, but did not otherwise react. "Clara! You've got to let me see her! If you're going to take our memories now, at least... At least let me see her!" His body shook as he stared at his young companion huddled on the ground, moaning miserably. "What happened to her? She - she just..." He was clearly attempting to use his favorite tactic: stalling for time.

The Conscious inside Fritz laughed sibilantly once more. _She is human. She is weak and puny. The candle that is her life can be blown out at any second. And now, it is guttering in its socket. She will -"_

"Oh, I have had BLOODY ENOUGH of this poetic rubbish," a voice snapped.

It was Clara Oswald, ready for action once more. All vestiges of pain had suddenly vanished, and her eyes were alight with triumph. "You think I'm weak? You think I'm fragile?" She met Fritz's gaze, and then Agatha's, daring them to answer. "Well, you're wrong. _You're_ weak. I am Clara Oswald. I'm the Impossible Girl. I just made you fall for the stupidest trick in existence. I just made you lower your defenses. And right now, you should be very, _very_ scared of me."

Moving faster than the eye could see, Clara suddenly shot to her feet and kneed the man standing next to her in the crotch. His breath hitched and he doubled over, moaning in pain. Before he could recover, Clara sped away, racing towards the TARDIS.

"WELL, DON'T JUST STAND THERE, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!" she yelled over her shoulder to the Doctor. "COME ON!"

He shook off his confusion and hurried to catch up with her. Fritz, Agatha, and the possessed passengers seemed frozen in shock.

Clara and Twelve skidded to an ungainly halt in front of the TARDIS. He fumbled urgently in his pockets. "I haven't got the key!" he hissed urgently.

Clara shook her head in disgust. "You left it behind on the shelf inside the TARDIS, didn't you."

His silence told her everything she needed to know. Clara sighed. "You know, you really do need me to work for you." She glanced over her shoulder; the Conscious finally seemed to be regaining their composure. "Come on!" She fastened her hand around Twelve's arm and dragged him away.

They ran for several minutes, a flood of Conscious-controlled people on their heels. Clara soon began to tire, but the Doctor refused to let her stop running. "Keep going, keep going," he urged her. "Keep those little sausagey legs of yours moving."

"If I wasn't so tired..." she panted," I would slap you _so_ hard right now. How are you so good at running, anyway?"

The Doctor offered her a crooked smile. "I've had lots of practice." Without warning, he veered left and burst through a door that read CREW ONLY. They ascended a flight of metal steps and found themselves at the beginning of a thin walkway that led into the bowels of the airship. Massive canisters surrounded them on all sides.

"They're not following," the Doctor realized.

Clara paid him no attention. "Oh God, I'm going to _die_ ," she groaned, slumping against the railings, her chest heaving from the exertion.

"Yes, go ahead, but why aren't they following us?" the Doctor breathed, not listening to her in the slightest. "Oh, wait... they don't need to. We've got nowhere to go; they're in the room with the TARDIS. They know we'll have to come out eventually." He looked askance at Clara. "I don't fancy our chances right now."

"Me neither, thanks to you," she told him sharply, finally regaining her breath. "Nice stunt you pulled, forgetting the keys."

"Oh, we're talking about stunts now?" he fired back. "Well, what was that stunt you pulled, falling to the ground like a heap of potatoes? I legitimately thought you were dying!"

"Fell for it, then?" Clara smirked. "I was good, wasn't I?" She proudly tossed her French-toast colored hair.

"How did you know that kicking him in the... well, you know... would work?" The Doctor seemed genuinely interested. "It's true that the Conscious have silly physical limitations - they feel pain when they're trapped inside or are possessing a human - but how did you know? Lucky guess?"

Clara gave him a mock frown. "You're attributing all this genius-" she indicated herself - "to guesswork? No way! I tried to bite him earlier, and he seemed to feel the pain. So I thought, well, there was my escape route."

The Doctor seemed to be about to say something, but she held up a hand. "Wait, hang on..." She leaned forwards, concern evident in her eyes. "There's something in your eye."

"What? No there isn't."

"Yes, there is... It's a tear, right there, see? You were crying," she teased him in a singsong voice. "You actually, really, literally thought I was dying, didn't you?"

"I was _not_ crying," the Doctor informed her. "There's an eyelash in my eye."

"Well, if your eyelashes are as poky as your eyebrows, I wouldn't be surprised you're crying. But your eyes are definitely red."

The Doctor snorted and turned away.

Clara couldn't resist a final dig. "Know what that sound was?"

"There _was_ no sound."

"It was your dignity slipping away," she giggled. The sight of his face sent her into hysterics.

"Where do you get these stupid lines anyway; your boyfriend?" he grumbled. "YouTube?"

After a few minutes, Clara's laughter finally subsided. "Alright, sorry. Ready for business now."

"What business?"

"What d'you mean, what business? Spill the beans!" she commanded. "Tell me about the Conscious! We're stuck up here now anyway - they'll swarm us if we go back down - so we should at least make use of our time."

"Time..." Wide-eyed, the Doctor yanked his sleeve back and peered at his watch. "The Hindenburg is going to burn in four hours and nine minutes!"

"You better find us a way out of here sharpish, then," Clara commented. "We're no good up here in the... wherever we are."

"Why me?" the Doctor grumbled.

Clara laughed, her cheeks dimpling. "That's what you do!"

"Fine, then listen up," he snapped. "The Conscious are a race of aliens who've been around since before the universe. They -"

"They've been around since _when_?" she interrupted, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Twelve shot her an angry glare. "Right, do you ever stop talking?"

"It's a valid question!" Clara protested. "You think you can just drop a 'before the universe' into your sentence and no one's going to question it?"

The Doctor was clearly fighting to stay calm. "Before the universe; how is that ambiguous? It only has one meaning: before the universe! Does that clear things up?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Then shut up!"

"No one gets to say 'shut up' except me, Mister."

"Well, I just did. Now listen. No one knows where the Conscious came from, though back on Gallifrey we have a myth that they actually created the universe, to help feed them."

"So they live on... human souls," Clara intoned slowly, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Not just human souls. Any souls. Any souls of any being in the universe... or outside of it. The Conscious aren't picky. They don't devour bodies. They suck your souls, your memories, everything that makes you you, and they leave you an empty husk."

"You mean... Dementors."

"Essentially," the Doctor agreed. "Where do you think Mrs. Rowling got that idea from?"

Clara's eyes widened. "Oh my God," she giggled. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I'll take you to meet her sometime. Lovely woman. The TARDIS loves her. But back to the point. The Time Lord myth says that the Conscious realized they would die without sustenance, so they created the universe. But they weren't counting on it expanding.

"Eventually - according to our myth - the universe got too big and wild for them to control, and the Conscious decided to try to devour the souls and memories of the entire universe all at once, so they could start over and make a new one."

"This is all part of a _myth_ ," Clara realized. "What do you actually KNOW about the Conscious?"

Twelve shot her angry glare. "If you could shut up for two seconds, maybe I would tell you. What I do know is that, for whatever reason, the Time Lord Council decided to impose certain restrictions on the Conscious. Perhaps it was to stop them from devouring the universe like in the myth; perhaps not. Anyway - the Time Lords decreed that the Conscious could no longer take their original forms, but instead had to adopt humanoid bodies."

"Why?" Clara tucked her legs closer to her body and scooted closer to the Doctor in order to hear him better; his words were being slightly muffled by the powerful humming of the Hindenburg as it slid through the air.

"Because the Conscious were too powerful in their original form. The Conscious actually look sort of like... like nebulas, I suppose. That's the only thing you pudding-brained humans have got to compare them with. In that state, they can do practically anything. They can travel from one end of the universe to the other in less than a second. They can devour the population of a whole planet in under a minute. That sort of power... none of the Time Lords wanted that to be unleashed on the universe. So they simply forced the Conscious to change their form, to be limited by a human body. They're allowed to create their own personas as long as they're in human form. That's why the Conscious you kicked felt the pain. They're all subject to silly human limitations. The only thing they can do while in human form is possess people, but doing so requires a lot of energy and they usually can't keep it up for long. All the people on the Hindenburg are real people; they've just been possessed. But the Conscious possessing them still feel pain. They have to physically travel from place to place, like humans do. Those limitations are meant to ensure that the Conscious are kept under control."

Clara leaned forward, her dark eyes burning with curiosity. "But if they were all-powerful, why did they listen to the Time Lords? Why not just devour their souls?"

The Doctor stared back, his eyes glimmering with pinpricks of light. "Because they were scared of us," he answered harshly. "They still _are_ scared of us. In millions and millions of years, no Conscious has ever gone against that rule. That Fritz fellow was the first to even slightly defy the Time Lord laws. What you heard wasn't a human voice. It was a Conscious voice."

"Gathered that, thanks." Clara curled into a ball and wrapped her arms around herself to keep herself warm. "But you said restriction _s_. What's the second?"

Sighing, the Doctor stared into the distance, his eyes unfocused. "Clara, Clara, Clara... that's the problem." He heaved a deep breath. "The Gallifreyan Council imposed a second restriction on the Conscious. They decreed that the Conscious could only eat once in a certain period of time. Every ten thousand years... the Conscious are allowed to choose five planets and devour every single soul that lives on them."

"That's barbaric!" Clara breathed, sounding appalled. "That's absolutely horrid! That's - that's -"

"That's survival, Clara!" the Doctor interrupted her. "The Conscious are doing what they must to survive. The Time Lords were faced with a situation in which no one could win. What do you expect, that they would have allowed the Conscious to rage rampant through the cosmos, gobbling up people like Christmas dinner?"

"Well, no - but - what about all those innocent people?" Clara demanded, her mouth still agape with horror. "Five planets... all those people... just gone! And the Time Lords let it happen!"

"Five planets every ten thousand years, or the whole universe?" the Doctor hissed. His eyes were wild, and Clara shuddered. This was a side of him she rarely saw, and she didn't like it. "Think, Clara! The Time Lords were not a cruel race! They couldn't allow the Conscious or the universe to simply die! They did what they had to," he added in a cold undertone.

"But now they're here for Earth," she murmured. "Why? What's so special about Earth?"

"The Conscious prefer to devour the souls of people with stories to tell. More memories is equivalent to a tastier dinner for them. The memories are devoured and then forgotten. It's quite sad, really. All those beautiful, beautiful lives, and the Conscious eat them without even having the decency to remember them. Like when you go for takeout and can't even remember what you got. The Conscious only remember information if it comes from someone they're possessing. Once the Conscious devour all those possessed passengers out there... they'll have access to all of their memories and knowledge forever." The Doctor's eyes were distant; his voice, bitter. "Every person on this airship has so many memories, so many moments to share, so many stories. That's why the Conscious chose Earth. What stories you people have to tell..." he chuckled softly, perhaps remembering a particular story of his own time on Earth.

"And they're all going to disappear unless we do something," Clara told the Doctor softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "We have to get out of here. I'm not letting anyone's soul get stolen."

"So speaks Clara the Control Freak," the Doctor replied sarcastically, his wiry eyebrows raised. "How are you going to go about doing that, eh? Do enlighten me. The Conscious are probably just waiting for us to come out. They know we'll have to eventually."

Clara shot to her feet, her hands clenched into fists. Her eyes wet steely and determined. "I don't bloody care. I've got to try." She bent down, ripped off her high heels and carelessly tossed them over the railing. A distant clang sounded several seconds later as they finally hit the floor.

"Are you feeling alright?" the Doctor asked with some concern. "I never thought you were capable of that."

"Me neither," she admitted. "But I didn't want my obituary to read, 'Clara Oswald, 24, died when she fell over while running in high heels and was eaten by giant nebula creatures.' You'll have to take me shopping again, though," she added ruefully. "Those were my best pair."

"I sincerely look forward to it," the Doctor muttered in a tone that implied the exact opposite.

"Then, with the prospect of a trip to Harrods' in mind, let's go save the planet."

Clara began to march off, but the Doctor fastened his hand around her elbow. "Clara, wait!"

"Oi, get off, you stupid twig insect!" Clara tried in vain to free herself.

"No - listen; just listen!" His eyes were bright and alert. "Before we go - remember what that Agatha witch said. The Time Lord and the Impossible One, she called us."

"So?" Clara tried to pull away once more, but the Doctor did not relinquish his hold.

"So if the Conscious only have access to the knowledge of their hosts... and if no one on the Hindenburg has ever met you... why did they call you the Impossible One?"


	6. Chapter 6: You Can't Hide From Us, Docto

**Hey guys; sorry for the long wait! Here's chapter 6 (I know; I'm Captain Obvious). Anyway, just to let you all know - I will be going on vacation next week, and this may be the last chapter I post until I get back a few weeks from now. I will try to write another but I don't know if I'll be able to. Also, this plot line is nearing its end (I think?) which means I will soon be accepting prompts! :) Enjoy the chapter! Please review, especially if you find any mistakes! I would love to know how to improve my work.**

 **TheFezWearer15: Thank you! I'm glad you are enjoying this!**

 **Evangeline Pond: I will certainly consider it:) honestly, I'm starting to ship Whouffali myself. But I don't want to make it too romantic. That would spoil it for all those non-Whouffaldi shippers.**

 **I've written you another cliffhanger. I'm no better than Steven Moffat, haha.**

"I swear the Hindenburg is bigger on the inside," Clara groaned. "These corridors are going on forever." She and the Doctor had been wandering the innards of the Hindenburg for at least an hour, attempting in vain to locate an exit.

"Can't be," the Doctor grunted absently, "I don't think you humans have discovered that technology yet."

Clara was too exhausted and sweaty to explain that she had been joking. The temperature inside the airship's inner corridors was stifling, perhaps due to the close proximity of the engines, which she guessed were behind the wall of large metal canisters. She and the Doctor had already passed three panels sporting levers and buttons that might have been intended to control the engines and the hydrogen inside the canisters.

The temperature itself did not bother Clara, although it was making her hair annoyingly frizzy. No, it was the eerie silence that was setting her nerves on edge. One would expect to hear clanks and growls while standing near an engine, but the engines of the Hindenburg were, somehow, utterly silent. In fact, the only sound that reached Clara's ears was the clicking of the Doctor's footsteps on the metal grille of the walkway.

When you were traveling with the Doctor, complete silence was never a good thing. All too often it meant that someone or something was watching you... or worse, ready to pounce.

Before she could freak herself out any more, the Doctor's gruff Scottish burr sliced across her thoughts. "Look. Over there." He pointed ahead, where the walkway branched into two thinner paths that led in opposite directions. "Which should we take?"

"Left, I suppose," Clara answered. Her voice was hoarse from dehydration.

"I think we should go right," the Doctor muttered, his eyebrows contracting upon hearing her response.

"Then _what_ was the point of asking?" she demanded. "Come on, we're going left." Without waiting for a response, she turned left. The Doctor dithered uncertainly behind her for a few seconds before following.

They walked in silence, Clara too grumpy to talk, and the Doctor too grumpy to listen. Both were worried about their predicament, but neither of them wanted to confess their fear to the other.

The Doctor strode onwards, murmuring to himself. "Not much time left... How to stop the Conscious? Don't know... Does Clara know? Of course not... Clara... where's Clara?" His eyes widened in dismay as he suddenly realized that she was no longer next to him.

"Oi, space cadet," Clara called from behind him. He spun around in relief to see her smirking at him. "You walked right by a door."

Shooting her an angry glare at her snide insult, the Doctor walked back to where she was standing with her arms crossed. There was indeed a door set into the sordid wall between two panels of buttons. A sign above it read, 'Pilot's Cabin'.

"What do you think? Our way out?" Clara wanted to know.

The Doctor scrutinized his companion's face. Her hair, which had been meticulously curled, was now mussed and stuck out in every direction as though she had been electrocuted. Her face was grimy and pale in the dim lights that shone from the ceiling of the corridor. Her dress was rumpled and her makeup was smeared.

But her eyes were fierce and ready to fight, and her mouth was set in a determined line.

She was beautiful.

"I rather think it is," the Doctor told her, smiling. He placed a cautious hand on the door and pushed gently. It opened without resistance.

Together, Clara and the Doctor slipped through it and found themselves in a spacious cabin. Large windows were set into three sides of the room, in front of which two pilots were seated before a large control panel. The curved exterior of the Hindenburg was visible through the window above the ceiling of the pilot's cabin. Below it, partially concealed by wisps of roiling fog, was the ocean.

"It's circling," the Doctor whispered, fitting his mouth directly to Clara's ear so that the pilots couldn't hear him. "The Hindenburg is circling around the beaches because of bad weather in Lakehurst, where it's supposed to land."

Clara had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the Doctor's ear, but she finally achieved it. "Okay," she breathed back, her warm breath tickling his ear. "But what are we going to do? Are we going to talk to the pilots?"

The Doctor winked at her and cleared his throat, intending to address the two men. "Hello, don't be alarmed that we snuck into your cockpit, I'm the -"

Simultaneously the pilots whirled around. Their eyes were flat and lifeless, and their movements were jerky. _We know. You cannot hide from us, Doctor. We are the Conscious. We know you. You belong to us_.

"Oh my stars," Clara muttered, closing her eyes in disbelief. "That is _so_ not fair."

The Doctor groaned and smacked his forehead. "Stupid Doctor. Of _course_ the Conscious took control of the pilots. Why wouldn't they?"

Clara swallowed hard. "Erm, Doctor? Do we need to be alive for the Conscious to devour our souls?" There was a slight tremor in her voice.

He laughed sardonically. "Now _that_ would be nice. No, we don't. Why?"

"Because they're about to kill us." Clara pointed with a shaking finger to the leftmost of the two pilots. His face creased in a malicious smile, the possessed man slowly reached into the pocket of his trousers and began to pull something out.

The cold handle of a gun was visible between his fingers.

The Doctor stared at it. "Now _that_ is an unforeseen development."

"Get us out of here!" Clara hissed.

He assessed the situation in an instant. There was no way they could bluff their way out of the situation, since the pilots were being possessed by the Conscious. The fact that they were being possessed would also give them extra strength, which meant that there was no point trying to physically overpower them. If the pilot shot him, he would simply regenerate.

But Clara wouldn't. She was fragile; breakable. Too breakable.

She was the only one in real danger.

All of these thoughts flashed through the Doctor's mind in less than a second. He whirled around and frantically jiggled the handle of the door through which they had come.

It was locked. Of course it was locked.

" _Are you a Time Lord or not_?" Clara screamed. "Use your sonic screwdriver!"

 _Stupid Doctor_ , he told himself again. He fumbled in his pockets. There was an orange - what was that doing there?-, a grocery list, a teddy bear, a fish skeleton... but no sonic screwdriver. Inwardly cursing, he dug deeper and deeper, wishing he hadn't chosen a coat whose pockets were bigger on the inside. _Where has that bloody screwdriver got to_?

"Doctor!" Clara shouted. Her voice was laced with desperation. "It's too late!"

The Doctor glanced over his shoulder; the pilot had already drawn the gun out of his pocket and was preparing to shoot. The poor man was a prisoner inside his own mind; he knew exactly what his body was doing but had no power to stop it.

There was another door, he suddenly noticed, but he and Clara would never reach it; it was too far away. Clara's fingers found the Doctor's and he gripped them tightly, attempting to communicate some reassurance. He moved forward so that he was standing in front of Clara. If any bullets were fired, he wanted to be the person they hit.

Wearing a menacing smile, the pilot pulled the trigger. Time seemed to slow as the mouth of the gun spat a bullet into the air. It sailed in a smooth arc towards the Doctor and Clara. The Doctor closed his eyes in anticipation and squeezed Clara's fingers one last time.

And then...

A familiar noise filled the air, a whooshing, vibrating sort of noise, a noise that could be heard but never described.

A hollow thud sounded as the TARDIS materialized in full, wrapping the Doctor and Clara inside its safe interior. The bullet hit the time machine's weathered blue wood and gently bounced off, leaving no impact whatsoever.

For a long time, the Doctor and Clara simply stared at each other, unable to belief that they had just cheated death.

"She saved us," the Doctor murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "She materialized around us without me calling her..."

"Did you know she could do that ?" Clara asked gently, smoothing some of her disheveled hair behind her ears.

"... No." The Doctor's gaze traveled around the spacious interior of his beloved TARDIS, scanning every bit of it, and a small smile suddenly twitched across his lips. He slowly crossed over to the console and placed a soft hand on it. "Thanks, Old Girl," he whispered, bending down and brushing his lips against the console.

The TARDIS hummed in response, and Clara didn't need a translator to know what she was saying. _I love you_.

When the Doctor finally straightened, his eyes were gleaming. "So. We have a way out. We don't have to stay in the Hindenburg. We could leave. We could just go away." He paused and added, "What are we going to do?"

Clara didn't even hesitate. "We're going to go back and save everyone, because that's what we do."

The Doctor's hearts sank; he had expected no less from Clara. But he couldn't tell her that what had happened to the Hindenburg was a fixed point in time. The Hindenburg would blow up no matter how hard they tried to stop it. He couldn't tell her that there was no 'saving everyone'.

He couldn't tell her that this was a situation were no one could win. If they tried to save everyone, they might worsen the situation - or worse, the Conscious would kill them. If they simply left... the Conscious could very well go on to devour the souls of everyone on Earth.

No, there was no winning. In the Doctor's experience, no one ever 'won'. People either lost or they didn't lose. But they never _won_.

Clara had chosen their fate. Now it was time to find out who was going to lose.

The Doctor circled the console and input the necessary commands to set the TARDIS in motion. "I'm taking us to a supply closet," he informed Clara. "Hopefully the Conscious won't find us there. And then we can go about our saving the day business."

He felt a pang of sadness as he beheld Clara's excited smile. Sweet, innocent Clara. She hadn't even considered what would happen if the Hindenburg landed safely. As far as he knew, there was no way to force the Conscious to leave their hosts. Those passengers out there were dead - their bodies still functioned, but everything that defined them -their minds, their souls - was dead. The Doctor knew he couldn't let the Hindenburg land, not with the Conscious still alive. If they were unleashed upon the Earth... the consequences were too horrible to consider. Whatever the cost, the Doctor was prepared to bring down the Hindenburg himself if necessary.

Even if it meant breaking Clara's heart.

A tear began to form in his eye, and he hastily blinked it away. His primary responsibility was keeping Clara safe, and he couldn't do that if he allowed his emotions to overtake him.

The TARDIS landed with a bang. Clara bounded down the steps and glanced back at the Doctor, her eyes, the color of warm hot chocolate, glittering with excitement. "Come on, you slowpoke! Let's go!"

They exited the TARDIS together, the Doctor remembering to pocket a key before he left.

The Doctor had taken only three steps when he came to a sudden halt.

"Doctor, what's wrong?" Clara inquired with some concern.

He couldn't bring himself to answer. There was a clock fixed to the wall ahead.

As the two of them watched, the minute hand slid into position at the very top of the clock, announcing the arrival of seven o'clock.

The slight click of the clock hand moving resonated in Clara's ears like the sound of a bell. "Oh my stars," she breathed.

"She brought us too late." The Doctor was immobilized in his disbelief. The TARDIS had taken him to the wrong time or place before, but never in such an important and dangerous situation as this one. He hadn't even considered the possibility that he and Clara might arrive too late.

But they had, and there was no point trying to return to the right time. There was a possibility that the TARDIS had brought them here for a reason, and the Doctor was determined to find out what that reason might be.

If it existed.

Clara slowly turned her head until she was face-to-face with the Doctor, and voiced what she knew both of them were thinking. "The Hindenburg is going down in twenty-five minutes."


	7. Chapter 7: Please

**Hello friends! The wait for Chapter 7 is finally over. Here you go! Now, I will be going on vacation tomorrow, so I will not be writing anything for a few weeks. I will try my hardest to update one last time and finish this whole Hindenburg plot before I go, but I don't know if I'll be able to. So... we'll see.**

 **Also, when I get back, I'll be beginning to write all sorts of one-shots. That means I'll be taking prompts. So just leave me a prompt if you feel like it. It'll be a welcome surprise to come back to after my vacation.**

 **Hope you enjoy the chapter. Let me know if you find any mistakes.**

" _Diplomacy_?" Clara hissed. " _That's_ your grand plan? You're going to ask them to leave? Do you honestly think that will work?"

"No," the Doctor answered shortly, "but I've got to try."

Clara threw up her hands in despair. "Well, I hope you've got a back up plan."

The Doctor said nothing, but his heartbeats increased. He did indeed have a back up plan, but it wasn't one that Clara would like.

"I can't imagine they're going to listen to you," Clara continued sourly, irritably brushing her wayward bangs out of her eyes. "Why would they believe _you_? They know you're the Doctor. They know you're a big fat liar."

"It sounds so ugly when you put it that way," he snapped. "I prefer to think of it as twisting the truth."

"Twisting your brain, more like," Clara muttered. "And I still don't think they're going to believe you."

"What, and you think they're going to believe _you_? You, the woman who lied to your boyfriend for months before finally telling him you traveled with an alien? The woman who, when she was five years old, managed to convince her teacher that she had a heart condition and couldn't participate in gym?"

Clara flushed red. "Shut up."

"Well, if the Conscious aren't going to listen to me, they certainly won't listen to you," the Doctor told her firmly, his tone indicating that the conversation was over. "It's worth a try. End of story."

Clara decided that continuing to argue would be futile, so she changed the topic. "Why haven't we seen any Conscious around? Isn't it sort of suspicious?" The supply closet they had landed in was in the passenger section of the ship, so they had had to walk through several corridors and passages to reach the dining room where the Conscious were gathered. In that time, they hadn't encountered a single Conscious.

"It's not suspicious at all. They probably know I'm going to come and try to reason with them. They're just waiting for me."

The two of them arrived at a door that led to the dining room. It was a simple wooden affair, complete with a porthole-shaped window.

Clara attempted to peer through the window, but found that she was too short to reach it even if she stood on her tiptoes. Disgruntled, she stepped backwards and allowed the Doctor to examine the door.

He pushed it with his hand, discovering when it stood immobile that it was locked. "Not a very nice thing for them to do, if they were expecting us to come," Clara noted.

"They must've thought we'd come by the main entrance. This is just a side door." The Doctor plunged his hand into his pocket and immediately withdrew his sonic screwdriver. "Ah! So that's where it was!" he exclaimed.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Typical. Now it shows up, _after_ we needed it to save us from being shot."

The Doctor wisely opted to not answer her comment. Instead, he began to experimentally scan the door with his screwdriver.

Nothing happened. "It still doesn't do wood," the Doctor grumbled, slipping the device back into his voluminous pocket.

"You know, your sonic screwdriver is bloody useless." Clara placed a hand on his chest and nimbly shoved him out of the way. "Leave this to me." Without warning, she charged at the door, drove her leg outwards, and kicked it open with a harsh clanging sound.

Astounded, the Doctor gaped at his companion. How on earth had she managed that without hurting herself? Clara's arms were crossed proudly, and her face worse a smug smile. "What - how did you know that would work?"

"I didn't. I just sort of hoped." She paused, savoring his disbelief, and then added,"You're welcome."

The Doctor grunted. "Don't get a big head. It's wide enough as it is."

The smile melted off her face.

Sensing that his face would probably soon bear the imprint of Clara's hand, the Doctor cleared his throat and strode into the dining room. Clara stuck her tongue out at his back and trailed after him.

By now, of course, the Conscious had all been alerted to their presence. The possessed passengers stood facing the door, swaying dreamily, their arms dangling uselessly at their sides. Agatha and Fritz lurked at the front of the horde.

"So nice of you to come back, dearies," Agatha chirped as the Doctor and Clara entered.

The Doctor waved his hand disdainfully. "Pleasantries. Only a way of delaying the inevitable. Cut to the chase, Conscious."

Agatha's eyes, which were glowing with white light, darkened. Cold points of light glittered inside them. "Very well," she sneered, her voice a sibilant hiss. "It is time for us to feast on your memories."

"You can't do that." The Doctor's voice was as harsh as Agatha's eyes.

 _Why_? Fritz demanded. The other voices that seemed to be speaking on top of his echoed the question: _why? Why? Why_?

"Because I'm the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord. And this girl is under my protection. You can't touch her." He indicated Clara.

Agatha together disdainfully. "Friendship? Love? What reasons are those to stop us from taking -"

"Shut up!" the Doctor roared, his eyebrows contracting thunderously. "I'm not finished! We are both under the protection of the Time Lord Council of Gallifrey! If you take our souls, they will come after you and kill you. All of you. Would you risk your lives for the promise of two extra souls?"

Whispers shot through the crowd of Conscious as they heard his lie. Even Agatha seemed nervous - she had no way of knowing that the Time Lords were actually gone. Knowing only what their hosts knew put the Conscious at a huge disadvantage.

 _Taking your soul may be a crime_ , Fritz admitted. _But taking the girl is not. Our pact lets us eat once every ten thousand years. Earth is one of our chosen plants. This girl is from Earth. So you cannot protect her._

"Actually, I can. Earth is under my protection, and I am under the Time Lords' protection. Therefore..." his eyebrows quirked. "You can't touch this planet."

The whispers grew in intensity. Agatha's brow creased. "Lies!" she bellowed.

Twelve shrugged. "Do you really want to risk it?"

There was a long pause, during which Agatha and the Doctor stared daggers at each other. Finally, Agatha spat out a word. It was a short, simple word.

And a deadly word.

"Yes."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Unexpected."

Fritz smoothly slid a gun out of his pocket and fired twice, directly at the Doctor. Struck dumb by the turn of events, he could only stand still and watch as the bullets sped towards both of his hearts. The sound of his slow heartbeats in his ears drowned out Clara's horrified scream.

And then...

Out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor espied a blur of motion. Someone jumped in front of him, and as whoever it was fell to the floor, the Doctor realized that the bullets were no longer in the air.

Time slowed to a halt. Fritz opened his mouth, presumable to roar angrily, but the Doctor heard nothing. He knelt and clasped the person's head. Evidently the person was female, judging by the chocolatey hair that flowed down her back in waves.

Blood pooled around the girl's torso from the bullet wounds, and her breaths came in rasping rattles as her hands scrabbled at the floor. The Doctor awkwardly pulled her into a sitting position. "Who are you?" he breathed.

Slowly, painstakingly, the girl turned her face towards his.

The Doctor drew in a shuddering breath.

Her face was Clara's. Her eyes, brimming with tears, were Clara's. her pert nose, her thin eyebrows, all Clara's.

She raised a shaking, bloodied hand to his cheek. "Run, you clever boy," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "And remember."

Her small frame heaved one final breath and was still. The Doctor clasped her hand, a single tear trickling down his weathered cheek.

Bang. Fritz fired a bullet that grazed the top of his hair and embedded itself in the wall.

The Doctor shook himself out of his stupor and shot to his feet. Whirling around, he clamped his hand around Clara's arm and propelled her out of the dining room with a burst of manic energy. "Time to go."

"Who was she?" Clara panted as they raced back the way they had come. "That girl?"

The Doctor lied instinctively. "I - I don't know." Later, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure why he had lied. Perhaps it was because he wanted the lie to be true. He wished he hadn't seen her voice; hadn't heard her words. In all of his past lives, Clara had been there, in one form or another, and she had died, always. It broke his heart. Seeing it happen again... it was too much. Maybe seeing Clara's echoes die over and over again was, to him, a reminder of what could happen if he didn't take good care of this beautiful, strong, fragile woman who was his companion and best friend.

"And how did she manage to break the Conscious's control? Why did she sacrifice herself for you?"

Those were more serious questions, but the Doctor thought that he might know the answers, or at least part of them. Evidently, the Conscious learned all about Clara when they began to possess her echo. The echo carried aspects of Clara as well as her other echoes, so when the Conscious possessed the echo, they also received information about the other echoes. That was the reason why the Conscious wanted so badly to take Clara's soul - her soul contained the memories of her echoes as well, since all of her echoes sprung from her. Their combined souls would have fed the Conscious for decades.

However, the fact that Clara's echoes were so closely connected also provided a disadvantage. It meant, to fully possess one echo, the Conscious would also have to possess all the others - a feat that was quite impossible. Since Clara's echo had not been fully under the Conscious's control, she had been able to escape their hold and throw herself in front of the Doctor.

But why, why? The Doctor's mind raced as he struggled to put together an answer. Evidently, the echo had known he was the Doctor. However, she hadn't known that it was her duty to save him, none of the echoes knew that - they just died to save him, without knowing why. What had compelled her to jump in front of him?

The Doctor would never know the answer.

Lost in his musings, he ran right by the door that led to the supply closet. Clara tugged on his arm, rudely forcing his mind to return to the present. "Oi. Doctor. In here."

Together, they ran inside and slammed the door. The Doctor hastily withdrew his sonic screwdriver and sonicked the door, which emitted a slight click as it locked itself.

"That'll hold them for a while," the Doctor muttered. An angry fist pounded on the door, causing it to shudder. "Maybe not so long," he amended.

"Why do you delay the inevitable, Doctor?" Agatha shrieked. "Let us in! We will spare you a slow death!"

Clara cautiously stepped away from the door. "That is one scary old lady."

But the Doctor wasn't paying attention. He had just checked his watch, and the Hindenburg was due to be set on fire in four minutes and thirty-two seconds. "Clara, listen to me, get inside the TARDIS and don't come out."

She faced him with her arms crossed. Her brown eyes were bewildered. "What? Why?"

"I think you know why," the Doctor told her gruffly.

Clara's eyes widened in horror. "Oh my stars. Doctor, no. You can't!"

"I have to!" he growled, spinning around and slamming his fist into the wall in frustration. "Clara, the Hindenburg's explosion is a fixed point in time; it has to happen! I have to make it happen," he added, his voice raw.

"I won't let you!" Tears shone on her cheeks. "Doctor, these are innocent people! You're - you're going to murder them, just like that! You can't! I know some of them survive, but it's still murder!"

"I can and I'm going to. It doesn't have to be easy." The Doctor could feel his relationship with Clara beginning to splinter.

"I am not going to let you! I'll -"

"Clara, listen to me!" the Doctor roared, his face livid and his fists clenched. "Shut up! Just listen! You know as well as I do that this has to happen! It has to! If this doesn't happen, history will be torn apart! The Conscious will be unleashed on the planet, and Earth will die! I can't let that happen!"

"So if you can't save people, you're going to kill them?" Clara's voice was shaking. "Who are you, to make decisions like that? Who do you think you are?"

The Doctor's anger suddenly seeped away. "I know who I am," he murmured brokenly. "I'm the Doctor. I make hard decisions. I do what I think is right. And I know who you are. You're Clara Oswald. You're human, you're stupid, you're reckless." In an even softer tone, he continued,"And you're brave, and selfless, and a much better person than I am."

Clara's eyes glistened with tears. She raised a trembling hand to touch the Doctor's cheek, but he gently pushed it away. "I'm sorry, I can't let the Hindenburg land. Think of the consequences. You might never be born!"

"I don't care about me. I care about these innocent people you are about to destroy." Her voice was calm, which was somehow scarier than when she was yelling at him.

"I know you don't care about yourself." The Doctor regarded her sadly. "But I do care. And that's why I'm doing this. For you. For Clara Oswald." In a swift motion, he picked her up and swung her small frame over his shoulder.

Ignoring her protests and screams, the Doctor marched over to the TARDIS, unlocked it, and deposited her gently inside. "I'm so sorry, Clara," he murmured, his voice breaking. Tears slid down his cheeks. "I really am."

"Please." Clara held out a shaking hand. "Please, Doctor, you can't do this."

He closed the door. "Old Girl... don't let her go. Please. Keep her safe."

The TARDIS emitted a disapproving grumble, but did as he asked. Clara desperately rattled the doorknob inside, but the doors refused to open. "Doctor, let me out, let me go! Please!" She smashed her fists against the door. "Please! Please..." Realizing that he wasn't going to listen to her, she slowly lowered her hands and slumped to the floor. Sobs racked her slight body as she was overwhelmed by horror and grief.

The Doctor forced himself to shut his ears to Clara's crying. Pain filled his eyes as he turned away.

"Darling, I really don't think you want to do this," Agatha warned him from the other side of the door. There was a slight tremor in her voice.

"I'm nobody's darling. And I don't want to do this, but I have to." Without waiting to hear her arguments, the Doctor spun around and left the room through a door set into the opposite wall.

Soon he came upon the doors that led into and out of the Hindenburg. With a heavy heart, the Doctor used his screwdriver to lock them. He couldn't let any of the Conscious leave the ship.

Sixty-two of the passengers were supposed to escape, according to history.

Now there would be no survivors.

The Doctor knew what he needed to do next. He burst into the dining room, now abandoned, and followed the path he and Clara had taken earlier until he came to the passageway lined with hydrogen canisters. Not allowing himself to hesitate, the Doctor switched the settings on his screwdriver and began to scan the first canister.

The metal of the canister began to sizzle and bubble beneath the intense heat emitted by the screwdriver. Soon a small hole had been seared into the metal. A gentle hissing noise sounded as hydrogen began to leak into the air.

The Hindenburg had been charged with static electricity from the storm. Electricity. Hydrogen.

Hopefully enough to start a fire.

The Doctor didn't wait to see the effects of his handiwork. He turned and raced back to his TARDIS.

It was 7:24. Five seconds to 7:25.

Four.

The Doctor pounded down the stairs.

Three.

The corridors echoed with the beat of his footsteps.

Two.

He was back in the supply closet.

One.

The TARDIS doors closed behind him.

Zero.

The TARDIS shimmered into nothingness as the first flames roared into being on the tail of the Hindenburg.

The Doctor placed his hands on the console and stared blankly at everything and nothing, the faint screams of the passengers ringing in his ears.

He had escaped. But they weren't so lucky.

OOOH CLIFFHANGER! MUAHAHAHA! Now enjoy the next three weeks imagining what happens next! (Unless I can update tomorrow, that is). I'd love to hear your theories about what you think is going to happen.

Merry Christmas!


	8. Chapter 8: I Just Want My Friend Back

**Hey guys! So, luckily for you, I was able to update one last time before going on vacation. Now you don't have to live with that cliffhanger for three whole weeks. I was a bit nervous about the last chapter... I'm not at all good with science and I have no idea if electricity and hydrogen are enough to start a fire (if someone does know, please enlighten me) so I just sort of made up something. Oh well.**

 **Anyway, thanks all of you for reading and reviewing. You inspire me:) This chapter is a bit of a shorter one and I'm not sure I like it very much. I think I sort of ended it abruptly. Tell me what you think, and when I come back from vacation, I might consider rewriting it according to what you guys think should happen. Also, leave me some prompts if you want:)**

 **Enjoy the end of this tale.**

The Doctor stood outside Clara's bedroom door and rapped on it with his knuckles. "Can I come in?"

"No," Clara replied, her voice muffled by the wall between them. He could tell that she had recently been crying.

Experimentally placing two fingers on the door handle and applying some pressure, the Doctor discovered that the door wasn't locked.

Completely disregarding her 'No', the Doctor opened the door and slipped inside, taking care to close it as quietly as possible.

The TARDIS had given Clara a childish sort of bedroom. Stuffed animals and books lined the walls, and the colors of the bedspread and walls were vivid and warm. Perhaps the TARDIS had been guided by part of Clara's personality when she had been creating the room.

"I said no." Clara's voice was harsh. She did not deign to look at him.

"I don't care what you said." The Doctor sat on the bed next to her and scrutinized her face. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. He could tell that she was upset - she hadn't even bothered to change her clothes.

Clara was the first to break the silence. "So I guess I was right. An alien did destroy the Hindenburg."

"But it was me," the Doctor finished bitterly. "I know what you're thinking."

Clara turned to face him, her eyes watering. "Why, Doctor? Why did you do it?" Her hands were trembling uncontrollably.

"Because I had to," he told her gently, placing his hand over hers. "Because you couldn't, and I was the only one who could."

Clara stared at him for a few seconds and then slapped him across the face, her eyes steely. "Don't you ever do it again. Not ever again, do you hear me?" Her voice was trembling.

The Doctor winced. "That hurt."

"I wanted it to," Clara seethed, rage flickering in her eyes. "I wish we hadn't come here!"

"If we hadn't, Earth would have been lost forever, and you know it, Clara. You know it."

Clara shook her head, slowly at first, and then faster. A choked sob escaped her, and she buried her head in the Doctor's coat.

The Doctor cringed at the close contact but didn't want to risk another slap by moving away. He awkwardly placed a hand on Clara's back, his fingers jarred by the tremors running through her petite body.

"I checked my phone," she murmured in a small, soft voice, pulling away from him. "Everyone died. Everyone. Some people were supposed to survive. But no one did."

"I rewrote history," the Doctor explained. "I had to."

"You didn't have to do anything. There's always a choice!"

"Not when you're a Time Lord." The Doctor heaved a deep breath.

Clara was silent for several seconds. Finally she raised her head to the Doctor's ear. "I just want my best friend back," she murmured. "The man who shows me the stars. Not the man who murders innocent people."

"That man is always with you."

Clara sighed shudderingly. "Sometimes I can't tell."

The sentiment pained the Doctor, and he searched desperately for something to say that would alleviate his guilt. "Saving Earth was your idea, Clara, and I did what I had to do to make it happen."

"I know," Clara whispered miserably. "But I just don't want to admit it to myself."

He could tell that she was hurting; even blaming herself for what had happened to the Hindenburg. He placed a tentative hand on her head. "Clara, don't blame yourself. You're kind and gentle and - and good. You're all things I could never be. You're Clara Oswald. You're fragile. You're pudding-brained. And I'd do what I did again in a heartbeat just to save you."

And then, for the first time in the history of their relationship, he hugged first.

The Doctor wrapped his arm around Clara's back and pulled her close. She curled into a ball and rested her head on his shoulder.

They sat in silence for what felt like an age (at least, it felt like an age to the Doctor, who was quite regretting his decision to hug Clara). Finally Clara pulled away and wiped the last remnants of moisture from her eyes. "Go on, Doctor," she told him gently but firmly. "I need some time. To think. To change out of these bloody clothes."

A smile tugged at the corners of the Doctor's lips. That sounded more like his Clara. "Yes, Your Majesty." He rose from the bed and crossed over to the door. "Come find me when you're ready."

Her eyes were hopeful, yet fractured. It would take some time for her to recover.

But she was Clara Oswald, and recover she would. She had seen impossible things, been to impossible places. And she knew that there was always a light in the darkness, if you knew where to look.

"I will," she answered determinedly.

Ugh. I can't believe I wrote that. It's terrible! What do you think? Was that a satisfying end? Or not?

See you in three weeks!


	9. Chapter 9: Soufflé

**Hi guys! Look who's back from vacation! So, what you are about to read is a cute one-shot I thought of a while back. I had a lot of trouble writing it, trying to make the characters sound like they would on the show. This was actually quite difficult, because this sort of thing has never happened to the Doctor and Clara on the show, so I wasn't quite sure how they would react. Anyway, let me know if you know how I can improve the way I write these characters. Also, what one-shot should I do next? I literally have no ideas. Give me some inspiration!**

 **Enjoy the story!**

His eyes flicked back and forth, as rhythmically as the ticking of a clock. The console, humming with energy. The bookshelf that wrapped around part of the upper level of the TARDIS. The round things on the walls. The leather armchair that he was currently curled up in.

They weren't much to look at, but they were all he had right now, without her. Without Clara.

The Doctor stared dully at his hands, methodically turning them one way and another. His ears rang with the sound of silence; the silence that hung in the air whenever Clara wasn't around. He suddenly realized how much he thirsted for her company. How much he _needed_ her company.

Would Clara ever be able to truly forgive him? The Doctor shuddered at the realization that he simply didn't know. He knew many things. He knew exactly how many stars there were in the universe. He knew exactly where to find the edge of the universe. He even knew why J.K. Rowling decided to write an eighth Harry Potter book in 2021 (mainly due to his own influence, of course).

But when it came to judging the emotions of his best friend, the Doctor was completely and utterly hopeless.

The Doctor sighed, his mouth twitching in a bitter smile. His eleventh self had dealt much better with these sorts of matters, although Clara's inability to tear her gaze away from his general cuteness and charm had probably aided him greatly back then.

Suddenly, someone gently cleared their throat, interrupting his gloomy musings. The Doctor turned his head a fraction to the right, and there she was. Clara Oswald.

She'd changed out of the fancy dress that she had worn on the Hindenburg, and was now clad in a black jumper and a scarlet skirt. Her russet hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes were slightly redder than normal, and the Doctor guessed that she had been crying.

For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other. Finally the Doctor broke the silence. "Clara," he started, swinging his lanky frame out of his chair, "I'm-"

"Don't," she cut him off. "Don't apologize. I don't want to talk about this. I want to forget this ever happened. Okay?"

The Doctor hesitated, his eyes roving over every inch of her face. He could sense that she meant every word. "Okay," he finally agreed, deciding for once not to argue.

"Good." Clara ascended the stairs, coming to a halt directly in front of the Doctor (they would have been face-to-face, except she was an entire head shorter than him). "Then let's go bake a soufflé."

"What?" the Doctor protested, immediately forgetting his decision to not argue with her. "No, no, _no_. You are not baking a soufflé in my TARDIS!"

"Actually, I _am_ baking a soufflé in your TARDIS," she informed him smoothly. "I said I wanted to forget what happened. Baking a soufflé is going to help me forget what happened. You said okay, so you are going to let me bake a soufflé."

"I am most certainly not going to let you bake a soufflé," the Doctor retorted, his Scottish burr becoming more pronounced as it always did when he was annoyed. "You'll burn the place down!" He remembered all too well the various Soufflé Incidents, as he had christened them, that had befallen his eleventh regeneration.

Clara drew back, affronted. "Oi, watch it! I'm not that bad!"

"Yes, you really are," the Doctor told her rudely. He slid past Clara and continued down the staircase, returning to the main level of the TARDIS. "You are not baking a soufflé. End of story."

When Clara didn't object after several seconds, the Doctor began to get suspicious. He whirled around and discovered that Clara was standing right behind him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Alright, fine. _We're_ baking a soufflé."

Before the Doctor could object, she fastened her hand around his jacket and hauled him out of the console room. "Get off! What are you doing?"

"Taking you to the kitchen," Clara replied calmly, her grip around his jacket not wavering even for an instant.

The Doctor decided it was time to change tack, as refusing to bake a soufflé with her was clearly having no effect. "The TARDIS doesn't have a kitchen."

"Yes, it does. Two doors past the library, across the hall from the park."

"And I suppose you've been there, then?" he demanded acidly. He was actually rather surprised - he'd known about the park inside the TARDIS (it was a replica of Hyde Park in London, minus the ginormous palace) but not about the kitchen. _Strange how one's best friend always knows more about your house than you do,_ he mused.

"Yes, and I suppose you _haven't_ , by your tone of voice," Clara shot back, turning left and dragging the Doctor down a corridor lit by flickering tube lights. "What do you do for food?"

He shrugged vaguely. "Time Lords don't need to eat much... I've never needed a kitchen."

When Clara did not respond and merely began to walk faster, the Doctor attempted to dissuade her one last time. "The kitchen probably doesn't exist anymore, if _you've_ already been there. You've probably burned it or exploded it."

Clara's mouth twitched at the insult, but she made no response. Sighing heavily, the Doctor gave up and resigned himself to an afternoon of being tormented in the kitchen.

Finally Clara came to a halt in front of a wooden door with no knob. She pushed it open with her back, swung the Doctor inside, and simultaneously released her hold on his coat. Startled, he stumbled backwards and was forced to frantically windmill his arms in order to regain his balance.

When he finally regained his composure, the Doctor glanced up and noticed with a sinking feeling that Clara was holding out a small silver key for his inspection. "Funnily enough," she smirked,"the kitchen door only locks on the inside. TARDIS probably thought it'd be a laugh. But it works to my advantage, because I can keep you in here until we're done." With a roguish wink, she slipped the key inside her shoe.

The Doctor knew when he was beaten. "Fine," he grumbled. "Soufflé. Let's get this over with. What do we need... flour, butter, anchovies -"

"Anchovies?!" Clara interrupted, wrinkling her pert nose in disgust. "Are you _mad_?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the anchovies were why your soufflés always turn out so slimy," the Doctor explained, a glimmer of amusement flaring in his clear blue eyes.

Clara stared murderously at him, her mouth a thin line. Without warning she produced a wooden spoon from behind her back and smacked him with it. "One-more-word-and-you-are- _dead_ ," she hissed, punctuating each word with another smack with the spoon. "Understand?"

The Doctor eyed her calmly, not responding.

"I said, do you understand?"

He shrugged. She _had_ warned him not to say another word, after all.

"Oh my stars! You're insufferable!" Clara groaned and banged her head against a cupboard. Then she withdrew, rubbing her forehead. "Ow. That hurt."

The Doctor couldn't help himself. A laugh escaped him. Frowning, Clara turned around in preparation to whack him again, but she reconsidered upon seeing the look on his face. She smiled despite herself and then burst out laughing.

When her giggling fit finally subsided, Clara got to business. "Okay," she mused aloud, expertly swinging her wooden spoon. "We need salted butter, granulated sugar, whole milk, all-purpose flour, regular butter, vanilla extract, confectioners' sugar, and... fresh berries," she finished slowly.

The Doctor stared at her blankly. "Okay. What am I supposed to do about it?"

Clara rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You're supposed to go get me what I asked for, obviously! Go on! Shoo!"

"How am I supposed to remember all that?" he asked desperately.

"You're a bloody two thousand year old Time Lord! Don't tell me you can't memorize a list of ingredients!" Clara was clearly not in the mood to listen to excuses.

The Doctor frowned at her and turned away. He wasn't sure if the TARDIS was stocked with the ingredients she had asked for, and he certainly didn't know where to find them if it was. "Help me out, Old Girl," he murmured under his breath. Choosing a cupboard at random and yanking it open, he was disheartened to discover that its innards were bare. "Please," he added.

The size of the kitchen suddenly struck him. It was colossal, filled with rows of cabinets and shelving units alongside stainless steel counters that stretched endlessly into the distance. Every surface was spotless.

There were hundreds of nooks and crannies in this kitchen. How on earth was he supposed to find the required ingredients?

Desperately the Doctor continued down the aisle, ripping cabinets open and peering into every nook while Clara drummed her fingers impatiently on the tabletop. He turned a corner and suddenly found himself facing a wall of closed cubbies.

The Doctor raced towards them and began frantically opening them. There were at least a hundred cubbies, and he wanted to get through them all as quickly as possible.

He'd checked twenty cubbies. Not a sign of anything helpful.

Fifty. Nope.

Seventy-five. Still nope.

Ninety. The Doctor was beginning to lose hope.

"I'm waiting!" Clara called out from behind him.

Picturing what her reaction would be if he returned empty-handed, the Doctor redoubled his efforts. Nine cubbies left... then eight... then seven... "Come on, come on, they've got to be here somewhere..." he muttered under his breath. Four cubbies left... three... two...

And suddenly, there they were, resting peacefully in the final cubby. Flour. Sugar. Vanilla. Milk. Every single ingredient that he needed.

"Thanks, Old Girl," the Doctor breathed, reaching out to give the wall a gentle pat. He hastily gathered the ingredients in his arms and strode back to where Clara was standing, proudly depositing them on the table. "There you go," he announced smugly. "Every one of them. Even the milk, butter, and eggs, which really should have been in a refrigerator - but there's Time Lord technology for you. Refrigerated cubbies!" He beamed, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Clara cast him a bemused glance. "Right then. Stop being so happy. It's kind of freaking me out. You know, seeing those 'attack eyebrows' with a smile."

"Yes ma'am," the Doctor replied, snapping her an informal salute and allowing his grin to partially fade. Smiling was something this regeneration didn't do much, and he was enjoying it slightly more then he would care to admit.

Clara gestured to the tabletop in front of her. "I've already laid out all the things we'll need. Mixing bowls, measuring cups, soufflé dish, and so on." She paused and then added, with a sly grin,"Watch and learn."

The next twenty minutes were a blur of activity which resulted in one perfect soufflé mixture and a gigantic mess. Both the countertop and the floor were blanketed beneath a carpet of flour. At least five eggshells, splintered so much that they were practically powder, were present on the table, and their contents were oozing down the side of the counter and forming puddles of yolk on the floor.

Clara and the Doctor, however, had borne the brunt of the hail of ingredients that had rained through the air during the past twenty minutes. The Doctor's black jacket as well as Clara's jumper now looked as though they had been heavily dusted with snow (Clara had taken it upon herself to teach the Doctor how to bake, and had entrusted him with the pouring of the flour. He had been slightly overenthusiastic and had created a rather large flour storm, which had affected everything from Clara'a face to the Doctor's shoes). In desperation, she had asked him to crack the eggs while she took care of the rest of the mixture. "Not even _you_ can go wrong with eggs," she'd told him.

Well, he had. The eggs weren't cracking properly, so, in his frustration, the Doctor fished his screwdriver out of his pocket and sonicked the lot of them.

It might have worked, if he'd remembered to change the setting on his screwdriver to 'egg' (yes, there was such a setting).

The eggs exploded with such violence that pieces of yolk slapped against the opposite wall. Although the Doctor, fortunately, had managed to take cover behind the counter, Clara had not been so lucky.

"Okay," Clara stated, breathing heavily. Perspiration was trickling down her face, and her bun had mostly come undone. In fact, with strands of her hair sticking up in every direction and her face powdered with flour, Clara looked frightful. "Okay. There's flour and eggs everywhere. I look a mess. It's going to take forever to get this egg out of my hair. But the mixture is perfect! Half the time, I don't even get this far! I've usually forgotten to add an ingredient or something. But this... this is beautiful!"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow and turned away. "Withholding comment."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up. Don't spoil this moment." She slipped on a pair of mitts, picked up the soufflé mixture, and gently slid it inside the oven. "Alright, Mum," she whispered, blowing the soufflé a kiss as she shut the oven door. "This one's going to be perfect, just for you."

The soufflé was done in no time. Curious despite himself, the Doctor hovered next to Clara as she pulled it out of the oven and set it on the stovetop to cool. Its puffy golden top was crisped to perfection and was bubbling around the edges. It smelled warm and fresh... _like Clara_ , the Doctor realized. She flashed him a smile, her eyes dancing with excitement. "This is unusual," she confided to him, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Normally they've collapsed... or burned... by this point."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Collapse is inevitable," he assured her. "After all, _you're_ the one baking the soufflé. I called you Impossible Girl for a reason, you know... Impossible to make a soufflé, impossibly wide face, impossibly egotistic nature... there are lots of impossibles there."

Clara slowly turned her head until her gaze met his. "Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

He shut up.

The soufflé cooled quickly, and Clara wasted no time in carving herself and the Doctor portions. She eagerly cut out a bite, delicately placed it on her tongue... and spat it out at once, her face contorted with revulsion. "Oh my stars! _What_ is in that?"

The TARDIS emitted a deep rumbling sound, as though she were laughing at them.

Suddenly the Doctor realized that she probably was. "The ingredients. She tricked us... she gave us bad ingredients! She could have switched the vanilla extract out with medicine... Or given us that weird soy milk thing instead of whole milk..."

Clara seemed ready to tear her own hair out in her frustration. "You stupid snogbox!" she shouted, pointing a trembling finger at the ceiling. "I will kill you! I will kill you! Oh, you think you're so smart..." Her eyes were livid. "This was going to be the perfect soufflé!" Suddenly her anger seemed to subside. "I guess it's just not meant to be," she admitted sadly. "Me and soufflés, I mean. Maybe I should just give this up. Maybe I'll never be able to make a perfect soufflé."

"Good!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Once you get everything you want, why bother living? Far better to spend your life trying to get something and never get it! It's the trying that's important, not the succeeding."

Clara's mouth twitched in a soft smile. "Okay... I'll keep trying. But next time, I'm not inviting you to the party. I'm done with egg in my hair. Also, the TARDIS and I need to have a little talk." She began to stride towards the door but then she halted and glanced back over get shoulder. "Oh, and Doctor? There's one thing I forgot to mention at the beginning."

"Do enlighten me," the Doctor responded drily.

Clara winked. "You're cleanin' up."

With that, she unlocked the door and slid out.


	10. Chapter 10: The Rubber Duck Debate

**Hello everyone, here's chapter ten. I gave you all an extra long chapter this week. It might be the longest one I've ever written. To be honest, I think it's one of my better ones, but I don't know - you'll have to tell me! :) Hope you enjoy. (Don't worry, Whouffaldi fans - Danny does make an appearance in this chapter, but that does not mean this will not later be a Whouffaldi story.)**

 **This chapter is dedicated to TheFezWearer15, who gave me part of the idea for this chapter. Thanks for all your friendly reviews:)**

 **Let me know what you guys think. And give me some ideas for one-shots I can write next - I'm totally brain dead! :)**

"Right, Harrison. Take that pencil out of your nose right now or you're off to detention, d'you hear? Harrison, _right now_." Clara gave her class the evil eye until they quieted down and pretended to be listening attentively. "Alright. What can you all tell me about Charlotte Brontë?"

There was an expectant silence as everyone fidgeted and shuffled their feet, waiting for someone else to answer. Finally a broad-chested boy with a military haircut and a footballer's build took it upon himself to attempt a response. "She was... a lady," he mumbled reluctantly. "From a long time ago."

Clara stared at her students in disbelief, waiting for someone to provide a more detailed response. No one did. "Is that really all you know about Charlotte Brontë?" she demanded. "That's really it? She was a woman from a long time ago? That's _all_ you can tell me?"

"Isn't it _your_ job to teach _us_ , and not the other way around, Miss?" Harrison snickered. The class erupted into a fit of giggles.

"Right, you're in charge of reading all the passages for today's class," Clara snapped, not in a mood to be trifled with. She normally made her students take turns reading the passages that she wanted to discuss with them. However, if a student behaved particularly badly, she made the culprit stand at the front of the class and read every single one of the assigned passages. The punishment was more embarrassing than it was taxing - Clara had found that her students were more motivated by the threat of being humiliated in front of their peers than of detention.

Even Harrison wasn't foolish enough to keep talking, so he contented himself by slouching in his seat and muttering under his breath. Clara eyed the class to make sure that everyone was paying attention and then continued her lesson, shooting a brief glance at her notes. "Right, keep quiet or you're all getting a test on today's material. Charlotte Brontë was the author of _Jane Eyre_... which just happens to be the required reading for next week," she added with a grin.

A few muted groans were audible, but no one dared to speak. "She was born in 1816 in Yorkshire. She had five siblings, but two of them died when they were young. So it was just Charlotte, her sisters, Emily and Anne; her brother, Branwell; and her dad, Patrick. S'pose you haven't heard of any of them either."

"Wot about 'er mum, Miss?" a thin, bespectacled boy piped up.

"Died of tuberculosis with her two sisters," Clara answered, flashing him an approving smile. "Actually, most of her family died before she did. Emily and Anne also died of tuberculosis, in their thirties. Branwell died 'cos he was an alcoholic. Pity, Branny was kind of cute."

The class was plenty used to these sorts of disjointed remarks, so no one commented, although they all wondered why their teacher often spoke as though she had personally known the people that she was discussing with them.

"Anyway, when Charlotte was eight, her dad packed her off to -"

The door to the classroom swung open and crashed against the wall, sending a slight tremor throughout the entire room.

Clara guessed who it was even before he entered the room. Only the Doctor felt the need to always make a dramatic entrance.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around so that she was facing the doorway. She found herself staring into the familiar, hedgy-eyebrowed face of the Doctor. "Clara, I need you," he breathed, his penetrating blue gaze focused on her face.

Whispers permeated the air. "That's him... the caretaker guy... what's _he_ doing here?" Fortunately, Courtney, the only student who knew the Doctor's true identity, had called in sick that day.

 _At least he came by the door this time and not the window_. "Why do you need me? Can you please just _not_ need me for two seconds? I am in the _middle_ of teaching a class!"

"It's been an hour," the Doctor argued. "I haven't needed you for a whole entire hour! What makes you think I always need you, anyway? _You_ need egomania treatment."

Several of her students had to smother giggles. Clara's cheeks flushed. "Shut up. And _you_ just admitted that you always need me except for during the last hour."

"Besides the point. But look, can't you come with me? I really need to ask you something."

"Well, you're going to have to wait for another forty-seven minutes until this class is over,"Clara informed him, turning back around to face her students. "Go back to your snogbox." At the word 'snogbox', most of the students erupted into muffled giggles.

"You're not even supposed to be teaching class! You should be -" Clara silenced the Doctor with a glare before he could say anything that would make her students suspicious.

Actually, he was right. Clara's two-week stay on the TARDIS was nearly over, and she should have been spending her last few days with the Doctor on some obscure planet. Instead, she was teaching English to a group of insolent high schoolers. The only reason for this was that Clara didn't want to forget her ties to earth in her haste to travel the universe. Lately, she'd found herself wanting to spend more and more time aboard the TARDIS, and it scared her. What if, one day, she went with the Doctor and never came back to Earth? What if she spent the rest of her life with him, and forgot all about her life on Earth?

Clara knew that it was a silly fear, but the idea that she might someday feel no desire to live on Earth scared her. That was why she'd asked the Doctor if she could come back for a day, just to teach a class and go shopping and buy chips and do other normal Earth things. To help herself remember what living a normal life was like.

A gentle voice that most definitely did not belong to the Doctor roused Clara from her musings. "Um... Clara? Can I have a word?"

The class roared with laughter.

Danny Pink was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes fixated on Clara. "Can I talk to you?" he repeated, when Clara didn't respond.

She blinked. "Oh! Yes! Danny, hi!"

Several of her students snickered at her sudden awkwardness. Whispers of "Ozzie loves the Squaddie" and "She can't even _think_ right, look at her" circulated throughout the room.

Clara's heartbeat was pounding in her ears. "Erm... yes. Yeah, 'course you can have a word. Erm - right now?"

"Yep." He tipped her a wink that was so cute it almost gave her a heart attack.

"Ozzie's _infatuated_ ," Harrison whispered to the rest of the class, sending everyone into hysterics once more.

Both Clara and Danny were completely oblivious to the uproar. The Doctor, for his part, was absolutely disgusted by the sappy looks the two were sending each other. He waved a hand in front of Clara's face. "I think you'd better go have your word, Miss Oswald," he told her firmly. " _Right now_. Before I vomit. Go on. I can handle this lot," he assured her, gesturing to the students.

Danny's gaze flicked to the Doctor and his eyes widened. "You?" he yelped. "What are you doing here?"

Clara cleared her throat, having recovered a fragment of her composure. "Danny. Outside. Now. Doctor, watch the kids and don't destroy anything. Actually, don't do anything at all. Just sit at my desk or something." She strode towards Danny, placed a gentle hand on his back, and steered him out of the classroom, hooking her foot around the door and closing it behind her.

Even through the walls, the uproarious laughter of the students was quite distinct. "I thought she was gonna faint into his arms for a bit there!" one of the teenagers crowed gleefully. "Did you see her _eyes_?"

Clara ignored the jeers that followed this remark, focusing instead on the warmth of Danny's arm as he slid it around her waist. Her brain was muddled by the close contact, and it took her several seconds to regain enough sense to be able to speak. "So," she started, reluctant to tear herself away from the warm, lazy feeling that enveloped her mind whenever she was with Danny, "what did you need to see me about?"

Danny turned into a deserted corridor and stopped walking. He turned so that he was facing Clara and wrapped his other arm around her back. "Well," he murmured in his deep, comforting voice that she had come to adore,"I was going to hand you this note from the principal." He slipped the said note into her hand. "And then I was going to ask you to come with me for lunch."

 _God, those eyes_. Danny had this maddeningly charming way of smiling not just with his mouth, but with his eyes as well.

Clara managed to clear her head enough to ask, "But why did you need to ask me that in the middle of class?"

"I didn't. I just wanted to see you," he admitted.

"Well, that's the best reason you could possibly have."

Danny chuckled. "I know." His smile faded a little bit. "But Clara - what's he doing here? Why's the Doctor back? And I want the truth," he added, eyeing her searchingly.

Clara leaned against his chest. "I don't know," she admitted, feeling relived that, for once, she didn't have to lie to him - this time, she really didn't know why he needed her. "He just burst in. I've no idea why."

Danny nodded. "Okay. Fair enough. But tell me one more thing. How long has it been for you?"

Clara glanced up at him. "What? How long has what been?" Her heart sank - she knew exactly what he meant.

"How long has it been since you were on Earth before today?" Danny's eyes were gentle, but sad.

Clara debated lying or coming up with a hasty distraction so that she didn't have to answer, but she knew she couldn't do that. She'd already lied to him too many times. "Ten days," she finally murmured, pressing her face against his chest. "It's been ten days."

Danny signed deeply. "Clara, I'm worried about you. What if -" his voice broke. "What if you go up there and never come back? The Doctor doesn't take care of you, Clara. He's too reckless. He's too carefree. Instead of taking you by the hand and guiding you, he lets you run free. And up there, if you run free... you're going to get lost."

The words chilled her, but she didn't show it. Clara chose not to respond to his warning. "Danny, I'll always come back to you, I promise." She stood on her tiptoes and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Danny smiled bitterly. "The Doctor doesn't think I'm good enough for you."

And that, Clara knew, was the heart of the problem. Apart from worrying about her well-being, Danny was also scared that the Doctor would convince her that she deserved more than Danny could give her.

"I don't care what the Doctor thinks," Clara told him firmly. "You're more than I deserve. Now shut up and stop worrying."

"Yes ma'am." Danny touched his hand to his forehead in a casual salute.

"Alright, Mr. Pink, that's enough. I have to get back to my class."

"Are we on for lunch then?" Danny inquired hopefully as Clara turned to leave.

"Sure, why not? Meet me in 45 minutes at the pub down the road?"

"Sure thing, Clars."

"You're buying," she called over her shoulder, smirking as Danny groaned good-naturedly.

Clara spent the walk back to her classroom in a daze, not really paying attention to where she was going. After taking two wrong turns and bumping into several people, she finally made it back.

Humming to herself, she opened the door. "... and that is what _really_ happened to Charlotte Brontë," the Doctor finished.

Clara's good mood vanished in an instant. "Doctor? What are you doing?" she hissed.

Silence hung in the air as the Doctor started guiltily and spun to face Clara. "I'm... teaching," he explained awkwardly.

Clara slammed the principal's note onto her desk. "Teaching what?" she questioned through gritted teeth. The Doctor's lessons were usually much more educational than necessary. "I _said_ not to do anything while I was gone!"

"Miss, we got bored while you were off snogging Mr. Pink," one of the students jumped in, clearly repressing a giggle. "He had to entertain us _somehow_."

"Exactly!" the Doctor agreed. "Wait - snogging?"

"I was _not_ snogging Mr. Pink!" Clara hissed. "He gave me a note from the principal to read. That's all."

"Must've been a really long note," the same student mumbled under her breath, eliciting some snorts from the rest of the class. "Took you _ages_ to get back."

"Leah, that's enough," Clara snapped. "Doctor, what have you been telling them?"

The Doctor gestured to the blackboard, on which 'CHARLOTTE BRONTË' was written in Clara's curly handwriting. "I was telling them about Charlotte Brontë."

"His lessons are way cooler than yours, Miss," Harrison announced.

Clara frowned. "Oi!"

"But it's true though," one of the girls piped up. "He said she didn't die of tuberculosis like it says on her death certificate. She faked her death an' ran off with some guy cos she knew her dad wouldn't approve."

"Yeah, well, he's making it all up," Clara declared vehemently, shooting the Doctor a murderous glare that said _stop it right now or I will destroy you._

As per usual, he ignored it. "I am _not_ making it up!" he replied indignantly. "I was there! I should know what happened! That was back during one of my handsomer, and, er... more impulsive selves," he aded with a faint smile.

Clara groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Oh my stars, no." She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to silently communicate her thoughts. _Please tell me you did not run off with Charlotte Brontë._

The Doctor read the disgust in her eyes and responded with a wink. It was all the answer she needed. "Alright, class, don't listen to anything this man says. He's a liar." The last word was directed to the Doctor. "We're getting back to English now. Caretaker, go and sit in the corner. Right now."

The Doctor didn't move, so Clara prodded him with her clipboard. "I said _now_."

"But Miss, how come he knows all that stuff he told us if he's only the caretaker?" a red-haired girl asked.

The Doctor's eyebrows drew together indignantly. "So that's the way the wind blows, is it?" he demanded incredulously. "You judge people's intelligence by what job they've got, eh? Well, we'll see about that. Go on, ask me something. Anything you like, come on."

Clara groaned again and slumped into the chair behind her desk. When the Doctor was on a roll, there was no stopping him.

"Did Richard III really murder his two nephews and stuff them in the Tower?" a heavyset boy near the back of the room asked.

"No, that was a Zygon's work. Richard was sick that day. Ask me something else."

"How many planets are there in the Solar System?" Harrison wanted to know, intending to make the Doctor look bad by asking him silly questions. Laughter rippled through the classroom.

The Doctor scoffed. "You must think I'm stupid. Thirteen, obviously."

The laughter fizzled out as everyone realized that he wasn't joking. "Prove it," Harrison challenged, his lips quirking in a sneer.

Even Clara glanced up, interested despite herself to see what the Doctor's response would be.

The Doctor shrugged. "Alright." He spun around, grabbed a piece of chalk, and held it up to the blackboard. "Proposition: there are thirteen planets in your Solar System." As he spoke, he copied his words into the blackboard in fluid but uneven lettering. "You humans just haven't discovered them yet."

Murmurs raced through the room at the words 'you humans', but the Doctor paid them no mind. "Particles in the Kuiper Belt are, as we speak, victims of a gravitational force that's forcing them to align themselves facing away from the Solar System. Conclusion: there's at least one planet out there, and it's drawing the particles to it. But there's not just one. There are three, as proven by the Gallifreyan Gravitational Laws. I'll show you." He began frantically scribbling mathematical formulae on the board, performing complex calculations in seconds and noting the results. Finally he threw down the chalk and stood back, dusting his hands off. "There! Three planets; what did I tell you!"

Everyone gaped at the blackboard in slack-jawed amazement. It was a mess of scrawled diagrams and barely legible numbers, and no one understood one whit of it, but it was impressive all the same.

Well, it was impressive to all of the children except Harrison. "I don't believe you," he announced, rising to his feet and narrowing his eyes. "Looks to me like you made all that up. If there was three planets, we'd know about it."

" _Were_ three planets, Harrison," Clara snapped. "It's _were_ , not was. Seriously, _why_ are you in this class?"

He glared at her. "If there _were_ three planets, we'd know about it," he repeated stubbornly.

In one quick movement, the Doctor advanced until he was standing directly in front of Harrison. "So," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "you think you're so clever? Well, answer me this then: what's the purpose of a rubber duck?"

Clara closed her eyes. _Oh Lord_.

After a long period of silence, everyone burst out laughing. "Did you hear 'im?" Harrison cried gleefully. "What's the purpose of a rubber duck, he says!"

"Why are you all laughing? It's a valid question!" the Doctor snapped, eliciting even more laughter. "They're absolutely senseless! Why would anyone want to own a squishy, tubby little duck that smiles at you? It's just creepy! They don't do anything! They don't talk, or help you with homework, or tell you jokes, they just sit there, grinning at you! And they've got your massive eyes," he added to Clara.

Fists clenched, she shot out of her chair and crossed the room. "No, they've got the massive eyes that _you're_ going to get after I slug you," she hissed. "Doctor, it's a bath toy! Rubber ducks are bath toys!"

"They're not bath toys, they can't be bath toys; that's ridiculous," he argued. "That's absurd."

"They're bath toys!"

"They are _not_!"

"Are too!"

"Are not!"

" _Oh my stars, they're bath toys_!" Clara shouted. Her students were watching the proceedings with interest.

"No they're not; bath toys are things like - like boats, and - and whatnot," he finished lamely.

"Doctor, they are _flipping_ bath toys!" Clara screamed, at the end of her tether. First he had given her students way more information than they needed to know about Charlotte Brontë, then he insulted her eyes, and now he was arguing with her about rubber ducks, of all things.

The Doctor seemed to deflate. "Are - are you sure?"

"Yes, I am _quite_ sure," she answered sardonically, struggling to regain her temper.

"Oh," he muttered. "Bath toys."

"Bath toys," she snapped. "Are you done now?"

"Yes... I'm done," he murmured.

The students began to snicker at his embarrassment, but Clara silenced them with a cold glare. "Right, that's enough. We're getting back to class now. Right now. Doctor, back outside."

"Clara, I'm not leaving. I need you."

Clara sighed. Either she went with him and found out why she was needed, or she was forced to put up with him for another twenty-five minutes while she tried to teach a class.

She sighed again. "Fine, I'm coming." She cast a glance at her students. "Class is out. Read Jane Eyre for next time."

"But what do we say if someone sees us out early?" someone wanted to know.

She shrugged carelessly. "Say whatever you like."

"So we can say our teacher ran off with some strange man on a date?"

Clara frowned, mulling over the possibility that someone might tell on her. Then her face cleared as a solution presented itself to her. "No homework for two weeks if you say I went home sick," she promised.

"Done," the students chorused, smiles lighting up their faces.

Clara winked and exited the classroom, hand-in-hand with the Doctor.


	11. Chapter 11: Stay With Me

**Whew, it's been ages since I posted! Sorry about that. Anyway, here's the next chapter, obviously. It's short but sweet. Hopefully. I may have deviated from their characters a little bit, but it was necessary to write this. Hope you enjoy.**

The Doctor flicked Clara's king with his finger. It spun around on its base for a few seconds before rolling off the chessboard and clattering to the floor with a loud clang, marking the end of their three-hour-long chess game. "Checkmate."

Clara groaned and buried her head in her hands as the TARDIS's engines began to purr amusedly. "Uggggggghhhh," she whined. "How do you beat me every bloody time?"

"I'm a Time Lord. I'm better at you than everything." He winked.

Clara folded her arms. "Oh, shut up," she snapped crossly.

"You know it's true," he teased her in his rough Scottish brogue.

She pointed a threatening finger at him. "Doctor, you're _this_ close to being smacked."

He caught the look in her eyes and scooted his chair away from her. "Alright, alright," he agreed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll stop talking."

"You'd better," Clara muttered, her annoyance subsiding a little. She tucked her legs up in front of her and crossed her arms over them.

There was a long pause as the Doctor and Clara stared anywhere but at each other. Both of them were dreading what they knew was about to happen.

Finally, Clara broke the silence. "I guess... I'd better be off," she announced reluctantly.

And there it was. That was the truth of it. Clara's two-week stay in the TARDIS had come to an end, and they both knew that it was time for her to go. They'd spent all day playing chess, trying to put off the moment when they had to bid farewell, but that moment had arrived at last, as they knew it would.

The Doctor couldn't help himself - he let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "I suppose so," he murmured, sadness clouding his gaze.

Clara noticed his pain and stretched out her hand, attempting to offer him some comfort.

But the Doctor didn't want to be comforted. He hastily jumped up, evading her hand, and strode over to the console. "Well, we'd better get you back home, then," he declared briskly, his arms flying over the console as he pulled levers and pressed buttons.

Clara's hand hung in the air. A tear formed in her eye as she slowly lowered it to her side. "Yeah... I guess so," she muttered grudgingly.

The Doctor pretended to not notice her misery, and he kept his back carefully turned so that she didn't notice his. With a shaking finger, he pressed the final button necessary to set the TARDIS in motion. The familiar groan of the TARDIS's engines started up as she set off through time and space, spinning towards 21st century England.

It was done. Clara was really going home. And he was going to be alone again.

The TARDIS landed with a bang. Slowly, reluctantly, Clara stood up and collected her suitcases. The Doctor watched her silently.

Clara opened the door and peered outside. The TARDIS had landed right in the middle of her flat - there was her sofa, her television, her bookcase; all the normal, mundane things that characterized her life when the Doctor wasn't around. A sob welled in her throat.

"I'll come back, you know," the Doctor suddenly reminded her, as much for his benefit as for hers. "I'll come back. This isn't the end of the world."

"Then why does it feel like it is?" Clara brushed a tear from her eye. She turned around and wrapped the Doctor in a fierce hug.

In a rare show of emotion, he hugged her back. The two stayed locked together for minutes on end, reveling in their last few seconds together. "Stay safe," Clara whispered into his shoulder. "And come back soon, d'you hear me? Come back soon."

"Will do," he replied softly. "I'm already planning our next adventure."

Clara offered him a sad smile as she gathered her suitcases and maneuvered them into her living room. "Goodbye, Doctor," she murmured.

"Goodbye, Clara Oswald," he breathed.

Their eyes met for a split second... and then the Doctor abruptly closed the TARDIS door, separating his world from Clara's in a single instant.

The TARDIS's engines hummed to life. Clara watched through a haze of tears as her beloved blue box faded away into nothingness, taking part of her heart with it.

The Doctor paced around his console with his hands clasped behind his back.

Around and around and around. Going nowhere, with no purpose.

This was his life when his companions weren't around. This was the existence that he had to look forward to until he saw Clara again.

The TARDIS's engines throbbed as it whirled through the time vortex, traveling endlessly until someone or something stopped it. Even the familiar hum of his beloved time machine couldn't shake the Doctor out of his misery. Clara was gone, and his heart had stayed behind with her.

For a moment he contemplated traveling to the week after he had left her so that he could take her on another of his adventures. But what was the point? She wasn't staying with him anymore. She would travel with him for an hour - a day - a meaningless blip in the endless years of his life - and then she would be gone again.

And then, even as this thought struck him, the Doctor groaned and smacked his forehead. "Stupid. Stupid, stupid Doctor." He'd known what he had to do all along - he'd just been too cowardly to do it.

The Doctor listed in his head all that he knew about Clara - how carefully she guarded her one hundred and thirteen pairs of shoes, how darkly she pouted when someone woke her up before nine o'clock, how poorly she functioned in the mornings without coffee, how regularly she cheated at games because she couldn't bear to lose.

But for all he knew about her, there was so much more to learn. Why could Clara never make a decent soufflé? Why did she have a ridiculous love of cleaning her house? Why did she still cuddle her favorite stuffed bear, Winston, at night, but made sure not to let anyone know?

Yes, there was a lot to learn about Clara Oswald. And his business was learning - especially learning about things he loved, like Clara.

With newfound energy, the Doctor strode over to the console and input his destination. "I'm coming," he breathed firmly. "Oh, yes. I'm coming."

The TARDIS's engines hummed into life. Clara watched through a haze of tears as her beloved blue box faded away into nothingness, taking part of her heart with it.

The noise of the engines died out as she turned around, wiping her eyes.

And then it came back.

Clara whirled around, her heart soaring as the TARDIS rematerialized. Before she had time to react, the door creaked open and the Doctor stepped out. He was fidgeting restlessly, and could not meet her gaze. "Clara... I've not been honest with myself. Or with you." He paused awkwardly, and then added, "I've realized something over the past two weeks. I..." The Doctor cleared his throat and restarted his sentence - he was little used to expressing sentiment so passionately. "I can't ever be truly happy unless you're around. I travel through the universe, saving people, saving galaxies, and I hate it, because you're not there with me. I'm lonely, Clara. And I'm old, so old." He shuffled awkwardly. "And... I need you. I need you. See to the whims of an old man, Clara. Stay with me. Please." He finally raised his eyes to meet hers. They shone with tears, but they were firm and bright and hopeful and yearning, all at once. "Will you travel with me, Clara?"

In that moment, Clara forgot everything. She forgot about Danny, she forgot about her English class, she forgot about her flat, she forgot about all her doubts about traveling with the Doctor, she forgot about everything that still connected her to Earth. All she could picture was a lifetime with the Doctor in the TARDIS, flying round and round and round the infinite stretch of time and space for ever and ever.

And she knew what her answer would be.

"Yes," Clara breathed. "Oh, yes." She ran to the Doctor and flung her arms around him. He closed his eyes and returned the hug.

"Thank you, my Impossible Girl," he murmured into her French toast colored hair. "Thank you."


	12. Chapter 12:May I Have This Dance? Part 1

**What you are about to read is probably going to be very odd. My assignment for literature this week was to write a fanfiction about the book Pride and Prejudice... and my teacher asked me to combine it with some elements of Doctor Who! So I basically spent all week writing a Doctor Who/Pride and Prejudice mashup thing, about 11,500 words in total. I decided I may as well post it on here, in little sections at a time. I think it's actually one of the best Doctor and Clara pieces I've written. The thing is: I don't know how many of you have actually read Pride and Prejudice, so I'm going to include a short summary below this author's note. Also, I need to know what your thoughts are on the matter. If you read this first installment and don't enjoy it, please let me know, because then I won't bother posting the next two. If you do enjoy it, I would also like to know, so I know to post the rest.** **Thanks for reading. Hope you all enjoy.**

 **~IF YOU HAVE ALREADY READ PRIDE AND PREJUDICE SKIP THIS BIT~**

 **A short summary of Pride and Prejudice:**

 **Basically, there's this family called the Bennets who live in Longbourn in England in the 1800's. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet have five daughters: Jane, Elizabeth (the protagonist, who's witty and sarcastic and awesome), Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, who has a thing for army officers (Fun fact: Jenna Coleman played Lydia in a BBC pride and prejudice spin off! But I digress.) Anyway, this dude called Mr. Bingley rents Netherfield Hall, near Longbourn, and invites the Bennets to a ball there. He is totally in love with Jane, and Jane loves him back. Elizabeth falls in love with a guy called Wickham, but she absolutely despises Bingley's best friend, Darcy, who is in love with her, though she doesn't know it. Then stuff happens, and Elizabeth realized Wickham is actually a lying toad, but she learns that her sister Lydia has actually run off with him. Darcy, whom she still hates, ensures that no shame is brought to the Bennet family by making sure that Lydia marries Wickham. Elizabeth realizes that she really does love Darcy, and she marries him and Bingley marries Jane and everyone is happy. So yeah.**

Clara leaned against the railing of the TARDIS as the Doctor flew around the console, toggling switches and pulling levers. "So where are we off to today?" she asked eagerly, her chocolate-colored eyes gleaming with excitement. "Time of the dinosaurs? Ancient Mars? New New Greece on some planet two galaxies over?"

"Well," the Twelfth Doctor grunted, the coattails of his waistcoat flying behind him as he deftly maneuvered his spindly body from one side of the console to the other, "I was thinking we'd go to the Fire Caverns of Jundmon, Third Moon of Corinth-5. Sound good?"

"How should I know?" she countered. "I've never been."

The Doctor glanced up at his petite companion and frowned, his hedgy eyebrows drawing together like giant fuzzy caterpillars. "Don't do that. Stop being smart. I don't like it when people are smarter than me."

Clara giggled. "Egomaniac."

He knew that this was one argument he couldn't win, so he wisely stopped talking and instead pushed the final button necessary to set the TARDIS in motion.

Instantly both he and Clara were thrown to the floor as the TARDIS began to shake violently. A blaring alarm penetrated the air as the lights set into the ceiling reddened and began to flash ominously. "What's going on?" Clara cried, struggling to pick herself up from the metal grates that comprised the floor. Another vehement shudder ensured that her efforts were in vain, knocking her to the floor once more. "What's gone wrong?"

"I've no idea," the Doctor replied grimly. He had managed to get up, and was now clinging to the console for dear life. "Probably nothing good."

And then, as the last word fell from his lips, the commotion stopped, just as suddenly as it had started.

Clara staggered to her feet, her plaid dress rumpled and her French-toast colored hair sticking up in every direction. Her face was smudged with dirt from the floor. "Where are we?" she inquired hesitantly, attempting to smooth her hair back into place but only succeeding in making it worse.

The Doctor's Scottish burr sliced through the air. "Let's find out, shall we?"

He pushed the TARDIS door open with his knuckles and cautiously poked his head through the gap. Clara stood on her tiptoes in an attempt to peer over his shoulder, but found with some irritation that she was too short. "Well, what do you see?" she demanded crossly. "Where are we?"

The Doctor cast a glance at his companion. "I think… we're in England."

"What, you mean we didn't go anywhere?" Clara shoved him out of the way so that she could see for herself.

The TARDIS had landed in the middle of a rolling green meadow dotted with cheerful pink and yellow flowers. Several stately mansions were visible in the distance, behind a winding dirt road that led into a thick forest. The cornflower blue sky was dotted with pale clouds that filtered the sunlight enough to prevent sunburn, but allowed just enough through to cast a golden sheen on the meadow and the tops of the trees.

"Okay, we definitely went somewhere," Clara amended. "Or somewhen, at least. How do you know it's England?"

"I just do. Don't question it."

Clara stuck her tongue out at the Doctor behind his back as he went back into the TARDIS. She trailed after him as he crouched down to peer at the underside of the console. He experimentally touched some circuits with his finger, which he then licked, much to her disgust. "Tastes metallic," he commented, springing to his feet. "That means the TARDIS got aggravated somehow, enough that her circuits malfunctioned. Her circuits have failed before… usually when that happens she lands in a random spot so she can recover for a bit."

The explanation meant nothing to Clara, but she nodded wisely as though she had been hanging on his every word. "So I reckon we can go out and explore for a bit, then?"

The Doctor stared at her as though she were mad. "What? No, we most certainly can't. The TARDIS should be recovered by now, so we can go to the Fire Caverns of Jundmon, as planned."

"Oh, come on, Doctor! When do you think we are – eighteenth century England? Nineteenth century England? We've got to explore a bit! The Fire Caverns of wherever can wait." Without waiting for a response, she fastened her hand around his elbow and marched him out of the TARDIS, pausing only to close the door behind her. "Let's go."

"This is really, really a bad idea, Clara," the Doctor warned her. "We're not supposed to be here. We could change history."

"That could happen anywhere," she replied. "And as for bad ideas, don't tell me that traveling with you _isn't_ one."

The Doctor really couldn't respond to that, so he subsided into a grumpy, disapproving silence which he resolved to maintain for a good long while.

Then he noticed that Clara's chosen path was taking the two of them far too close to the nearest house. "No, no, no," he snapped, forgetting his disapproving silence and trying to wriggle free of her grasp, but failing (for such a small woman, her grip was surprisingly strong). "We are _not_ going there."

"Yes, we are. I want to find out where we are. This is _England_. They won't even look at us funny. They'll probably ask us in for tea."

"And what exactly are you going to tell them?" he demanded.

"That's _your_ job," Clara smirked, leading him to the house's front door. The house was built in a simple but pleasant style, and was painted white. Its front door was made of mahogany wood, and bore an inscription that read, _Bennet_.

Clara rapped sharply on the door and was rather impressed when it was opened immediately. "Lizzy, if that's you, you'd best come in and – oh!" A stout, plain-looking woman gaped rather stupidly at Clara and the Doctor in astonishment. "And who are you?" she demanded, finally recollecting her wits a few seconds later.

The Doctor fished his physic paper out of his pocket and silently held it up for her scrutiny, waiting for it to invent identities for them that pleased the woman. She stared at it blankly. "Sir, I know not what you mean by showing me this vacant parchment, but I can assure you it is not humorous in the slightest."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Sorry," he apologized, stuffing it back into his waistcoat. "Just, erm – a joke. I'm the Doctor, and this is Clara."

Clara curtsied dramatically. "Gadzooks! 'Tis a pleasure to meet thee, my – " A sharp nudge from the Doctor prevented her from finishing her sentence. Indignant, she glanced back at him. His eyes said _Don't. Really, don't. Stop talking right now_.

He cleared his throat. "Well, we've been traveling this road for many a day, and we'd be much obliged if you could tell us where we are."

"Why, Longbourn, of course," the woman answered promptly with some surprise. "So you are strangers then? We have so little news of other places here. Perhaps you both could stay for dinner and tell us of the goings-on in London, or wherever you both may be from. My daughters Jane and Elizabeth and my husband, Mr. Bennet, would so love to know, although I fear my daughter Mary is far too absorbed in her books to care, and dear Kitty and Lydia care about nothing more than the officers stationed in Meryton. But for the rest of us it would be a pleasant treat." Her eyes lingered on the dirt smudged on Clara's face. "And perhaps you would enjoy the opportunity to clean away the filth obtained while traveling," she added doubtfully.

Clara, noticing that this remark was addressed mostly to herself, frowned and raised a hand to her face. It came away smeared with dirt. She stared at in mortification and opened her mouth to accept the lady's kind offer.

"Thank you, but I think we must get back to our travels," the Doctor cut her off grimly. He steered Clara away without so much as a parting smile.

The woman stared after the duo in shock and bewilderment. "What awful manners!" she ejaculated angrily, "What _awful_ manners! I shouldn't like his type staying here anyway – imagine what sort of influence he should have on my poor daughters." With that, she closed her front door with a bang.

"Why did you say no?" Clara hissed as they strode away. "And more importantly, why did you not tell me there was dirt on my face?"

"I couldn't tell your face was dirty. It looked just like it normally does. And we have bigger problems then your face, Clara. I know where we are, and we have to get out of here right now."

She frowned at the insult. "Oi!"

The Doctor ignored her. "Listen to me. All those names. Bennet. Elizabeth. Jane. Kitty. Do they mean anything to you?"

"Well… those are the names of the characters in _Pride and_ … no way," Clara breathed, suddenly realizing what he was implying. "You've got to be kidding me! Stop mucking about."

"Nope. The TARDIS got aggravated… by a breach between universes. There are millions and millions of parallel universes, but they're all sealed off from each other. Sometimes, though, there are little holes in the walls between them, and the TARDIS can fall in." He paused, and then added, "We're in a parallel universe where _Pride and_ _Prejudice_ is _real_. And we are leaving it right now." He picked up his pace so that he didn't have to address Clara's complaints.

Clara huffed and jogged to catch up. "Why can't we stay?" she protested. "We can't do any harm."

The Doctor sighed. _She'll go on like this until I tell her_. "Look, I've been in a parallel universe before, and it nearly destroyed the entire life of one of my friends. I don't want to stay here any longer than we have to. I don't want anything happening to you."

"Well, I appreciate the thoughtfulness – which, by the way, sounds really weird coming from _you_ – but I can take care of myself," Clara shot back. "Besides, how are the Fire Caverns of – of _that place_ – less dangerous than where we are now? You were going to take me _there_."

"It's called Jundmon. And parallel universes are funny places, Clara. Anything can happen. We could die. We could get stuck in here. We could accidentally kill a major character, and who knows what effect that would have on the book? I just don't know. There are too many 'I-don't-knows'. The sooner we get out of here, the safer for both of us."

Clara huffed again. "You're no fun."

"Oh, really? Well, you can just take yourself back to Earth and park yourself on your little sofa and start watching the telly, then. If that would be more fun, be my guest," he snapped acidly.

She held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, point taken. Let's get out of here and go somewhere else."

They pushed their way through a field of rippling, knee-high grass to get to the TARDIS. "If you really want to see nineteenth-century England, I can take you another time," the Doctor commented, placing a hand on the TARDIS door to open it. "But right now we should – " His sentence was cut off as he walked smack into the door –having expected it to open at his touch, he hadn't considered the possibility that it might _not_. Surprised, he stumbled backwards, gingerly rubbing his face.

Clara bit back a laugh. "How's that massive nose of yours feeling after that, Doctor?"

He glared at her.

"What?" she protested innocently. "Just getting my revenge for not telling me about the dirt."

"You're _still_ on about the dirt," he grunted, finally lowering his hand. "Why don't you help me figure out why we can't get into the TARDIS instead?" He pushed the door with both hands, hoping it would open with the application of more pressure, but nothing happened.

"Maybe she wants us to stay and explore a bit," Clara mused.

Ignoring her, the Doctor turned his head and rested his ear against the door. After a few seconds, he pulled away, looking thoroughly disgruntled. "There's no hum," he announced in a grouchy tone of voice. "Even when the TARDIS is off, there's always a little hum from the engines. It's gone. The jump to the parallel universe must have cut her power. She had just enough left to land us safely and let us out before her power went completely."

"But… if her power's cut… why is that stopping us from getting in?"

"Sometimes a power cut can activate her defense mechanism. She might assume she's in trouble and lock the doors from the outside and the inside… so nothing can get in or out. It'll take a few hours for the power to reboot, and then the doors will automatically reopen."

"Basically, we can't leave until the power's back on," Clara summarized.

Despite his annoyance, the Doctor felt a glimmer of amusement at the excited light shining in Clara's eyes. "Basically," he agreed.

Clara whooped. "Yes! So now we can go explore."

Nothing else would placate her, so the Doctor reluctantly agreed. "Fine. But leave the talking to me if we meet anyone. You sounded absolutely ridiculous back there."

Clara determinedly ignored the insult, resolving not to let the Doctor's cantankerousness spoil her mood. "Come on, let's go walk around a bit," she suggested. "We can go to the forest or something."

They'd been walking no more than a few minutes when Clara noticed a figure ambling towards them. She was close enough for her to be able to make out her features. The woman had intelligent, lively grey eyes, a spray of light freckles across her pert nose, and curly, light brown hair tucked beneath a wide bonnet. "Oh my stars," Clara giggled. "It's Elizabeth Bennet."

"What?" The Doctor frowned. "How do you know?"

"That's how I always pictured her," she explained.

"Bet you ten quid it's not her," the Doctor snorted.

"Done."

The figure approached and waved a cheery hello. "A fine day, isn't it?" she greeted them gaily.

Clara, purposely disregarding the Doctor's request to let him do the talking, smiled back. "It really is," she responded. "And you are…?"

"Why, how rude of me! My name is Elizabeth Bennet."

Clara stared at the Doctor triumphantly. "Told you so," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

 _Now I have to find ten quid_ , he moaned to himself. _The_ _last quid I had got thrown into a nebula._

Elizabeth was still talking. "Who might you be? Travelers, I suspect, for I haven't seen you around here before."

"That's right," Clara smiled. "I'm Clara, and this is my…" She frantically racked her brains for a believable identity to assign to the Doctor.

"Husband, of course," Elizabeth promptly supplied. "You make a charming couple."

The Doctor and Clara gaped at each other in horror. "Sorry, but there is no way in–" Clara began.

However, realizing that everyone they met would probably assume the same, the Doctor intercepted her. "Yes, thanks, I'm quite sure we do. I'm John Smith. We're coming from down Blackpool… as you can tell from Clara's accent. We left our – carriage… in the field back there so we could go for a stroll."

"Ah, I thought I recognized a Blackpool accent," Elizabeth cried joyfully. "It is a pleasing sound to hear."

"Really?" the Doctor asked interestedly. "I thought it was sort of grating."

" _Okay_ ," Clara interrupted, flashing him a dangerous stare, "that's enough about my accent, thanks very much. We'll get out of your way, Elizabeth."

"Oh, but I am enjoying your company very much," the young woman declared earnestly. "It isn't often one meets others along this path. And I was just about to ask you if you knew of Mr. Bingley's ball at Netherfield this evening."

Clara suppressed a delighted giggle. This was turning out just like the book! "Well, I can't say I did," she answered. "We're only here to visit my sister. I didn't know there was a ball."

"I should like it very much if you both would come. You seem intelligent, Clara, and there are not enough intelligent people to speak to these days. We could become good friends – I should not be surprised if I had told you all my deepest secrets by the evening's end. That is how much I have taken a liking to you already."

Clara was, frankly, enchanted by the prospect of going to a ball. "I would love to come… but is it okay for you to invite whoever you want?" she asked Elizabeth dubiously.

The lady waved a hand dismissively. "The more the merrier. Mr. Bingley is the sort of man who would welcome you with open arms rather than resent your coming uninvited. Besides, you _have_ got an invitation, from _me_." Sighting the eagerness in Clara's eyes, she continued, "Do say you'll come. I should think your sister would not begrudge you an evening in our company."

The Doctor did not like the path this conversation was taking. "She most certainly _would_ , and we are _most certainly_ not going to a – "

His sentence was abruptly cut off by a grunt of pain as Clara stepped on his foot. She stood on tiptoe to reach his ear. "GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE," she hissed venomously, causing him to recoil from her ferocity. Then she smiled apologetically at Elizabeth, who was watching the proceedings with more amusement than shock. "Sorry, he's Scottish… you know how they are up there, always forgetting their manners," she explained apologetically. "We'd love to come to the ball."

Elizabeth beamed. "Then I insist you come back to my house with me and meet my family. You can make the necessary preparations there. If you don't mind, I shall go a little bit ahead to warn them of your arrival."

The Doctor waited until she had gone before rounding on Clara and beginning his tirade. "What happened there?" he demanded. "I said leave the talking to me, and you did exactly the opposite! And now we have to meet that foul Mrs. Bennet again!"

"That's a definite downside," Clara admitted. "But we get to go to a ball! Don't tell me you're not a tiny bit excited."

"I have had enough of balls to last me a lifetime, Clara. I never want to go to one again."

"Well, stuff it then, because we're going." She saw that he really was angry and softened her tone. "Look, if it helps, I promise not to do anything crazy. We're just going to a ball. We're not going to destroy the universe. No aliens. No spaceships. Just a ball. And as soon as it's over we'll head back to the TARDIS. Now if you're done being grumpy, you can tell me why the physic paper didn't work on Mrs. Bennet."

The Doctor wasn't done being grumpy, but he knew that saying so would potentially be extremely dangerous for his face (Clara could slap people with more accuracy and power than even Donna Noble, which was a rather impressive achievement). "It doesn't work on people who have remarkable strength of mind," he replied shortly. "It also doesn't work on people with no imagination."

"Mrs. Bennet falls into the latter category, I'm guessing," Clara smirked.

A reluctant smile tugged at the Doctor's lips. "That's a reasonable assumption."

They started off after Elizabeth. "I wonder what sort of food they'll have at the ball," she mused aloud. "Do they still have ox tongues and boiled carp in the nineteenth century?"

"Mmmm," the Doctor grunted.

She sighed. "This is going to be a one-sided conversation, isn't it."

"Probably."

The walk to the home of the Bennets passed in silence after that. Clara contented herself with admiring the scenery and trying to remember what had happened at Mr. Bingley's ball in Pride and Prejudice. The Doctor, meanwhile, was sharply scanning the countryside for any signs of alien life – in his experience, when a day was this sunny and beautiful, there were usually alien forces at work. Just in case, he slipped a hand into his waistcoat and fastened it around the comforting handle of his sonic screwdriver.

Sorry if that Scotland joke offended anyone; I'm just trying to make the characters talk like they do in the show, and Doctor Who has plenty of similar jokes.


	13. Chapter 13: May I Have This Dance? 2

**No reviews on the last chapter (I mean, not that I'm fishing for them, I'm just not sure if any of you guys like this Pride and Prejudice thing. If you don't, PLEASE don't hesitate to tell me, and I'll cut it out right away). This is the second out of three installments. There are some moments in this and the next chapter that could definitely be construed as Whouffaldi, just so you know. And I PROMISE that after the next chapter of this I'll give you guys some great Whouffaldi fluff to make up for this garbage I'm forcing you to read right now. Anyway, if you would rather that I continue with the fluff rather than the next installment of this story, let me know, and I will. oh right - and those of you who haven't read Pride and Prejudice may want to read the summary at the beginning of the last chapter!**

 **Let the Whouffaldi-ish nineteenth century action begin!**

Elizabeth was waiting for them as they approached the house, and welcomed them with a cheerful wave. "Mother already knows you are coming, so you may enter without fear of disturbing the household."

Clara smiled gratefully at her as she and the Doctor entered the house. Mrs. Bennet was waiting by the door to receive them, but the smile dropped off her face as soon as she saw who her visitors were. "Good Lord, Lizzy, you failed to mention exactly who was coming!" she exclaimed in horror. "This man has no place in my household!"

"As if I wanted one," the Doctor murmured in Clara's ear.

Elizabeth looked shocked. "Mother! He is our guest!"

"He is your guest, not mine," came the sharp reply. "His manners are atrocious. Keep him out of my sight."

Clara groaned. "I'm going to have to make you some flash cards so you can remember your manners, Doctor. You're making a bad impression on everyone."

An attractive young woman with silky blond hair and bashful blue eyes came forward and placed a soothing hand on Mrs. Bennet's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Mother. I suggest that you go and rest upstairs until the ball. We shall attend to the guests ourselves."

With a final sour stare at the Doctor, Mrs. Bennet scuttled away to take her daughter's advice. The blond-haired woman smiled apologetically at the Doctor and Clara. "You are most welcome here," she assured them.

"Jane, I presume," the Doctor announced, reaching forward to shake her hand.

"How did you know?" she asked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.

The Doctor realized he had made a blunder. "Erm, well, it says so on your necklace," he answered feebly.

"What necklace?"

He cast a desperate glance at Clara, who shook her head slightly. She wasn't going to help him out of this situation. Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer by the arrival of two young girls who burst into the room at top speed. "We've come to meet the guests," the elder of the two explained breathlessly.

"Are you an officer?" the younger of the two asked the Doctor impertinently.

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Alright, enough of that. He's mine."

Elizabeth, mortified, introduced her two younger sisters as Kitty and Lydia. "Pay no notice to them. They're just overexcited by the prospect of the ball." While she spoke, Jane led the girls into the kitchen. "I suppose you two would like some tea," Lizzy continued. "And perhaps you would like to wash your face, Clara."

"I should like that very much indeed," Clara replied, frowning at the Doctor. "Thanks."

Elizabeth led the Doctor into the kitchen while Clara headed straight for the washroom. After making herself as presentable as possible, she followed them into the kitchen, which was a pleasant, low-ceilinged affair that sported a cheerfully crackling fireplace and a round table around which everyone was seated. The Doctor had already seated himself (as far away from Lydia as possible), so Clara dropped into a seat next to him.

Jane, as the eldest, took it upon herself to serve everyone. Clara accepted a mug of steaming tea as well as an airy biscuit dripping with jam. The Doctor took tea as well, but refused the biscuit. "I don't suppose you've got any chips?" he inquired hopefully. "Chips would be nice."

Clara kicked him under the table. "1800's," she mouthed discreetly.

"I suppose you're right… never mind," he murmured.

After serving everyone at the table, Jane seated herself and turned to the Doctor and Clara with enthusiasm shining in her eyes. "You will have to forgive the absence of my sister Mary and of my father. They are otherwise engaged. In the meantime, Elizabeth tells me you come from Blackpool – that is quite a distance. Can you give us any news of the goings-on there, or anywhere else, for that matter? We have so few travelers through here, situated off the main road as we are, and we know so little of other places."

"Oh, yes," Lydia cried. "Have you been to Meryton? Have you seen the officers?" She would have kept going in this vein, but Elizabeth quickly shushed her.

"One-track mind, that one," Clara whispered, just loudly enough that only the Doctor could hear. Then she raised her voice to address the entire group. "Sorry, there's not much to tell. Blackpool's a pretty boring place." _Until the next century_ , anyway, she thought to herself. _Just you wait till then. They'll have an amusement park and everything_. "What about here? Anything important going on?" She sipped at her tea and nodded approvingly. It was the best tea she'd had in her life.

"Well, Mr. Bingley's ball is rather the talk of the town at the moment," Elizabeth replied obligingly. "It's all anyone can talk about. That and the officers stationed in Meryton…" She shot a reproving look at her two younger sisters, who either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Forgive me, but I couldn't help noticing that you aren't exactly prepared for a ball," Jane told Clara. "If you'll agree, my sisters and I can aid you there. Perhaps you can borrow a dress from Lydia." She discreetly avoided the topic of Clara's height in saying this – Clara was exactly the same height as Lydia, and all of the other Bennet sisters were much taller than her.

Lydia pouted petulantly for a second, but even she had enough grace to refrain from complaining. Clara was touched by the Bennet sisters' kindness, and gratefully accepted their offer. The talk quickly turned to speculation about the ball and a discussion of what color would match best with Clara's hair and eyes.

The Doctor watched the proceedings as he sipped his tea, both disgruntled and disgusted by the topic of the conversation. He did not know what to do with himself. Normally, by now, an alien would have jumped out of the cupboard or an explosion would have blown up half of the town. For once, nothing extraterrestrial (except for him) was present, and it was rather unsettling.

"Goodness gracious," Elizabeth exclaimed suddenly. "The ball is in two hours. How time flies. Jane, I should think you should start getting ready now. You'll want to look your best tonight for Mr. Bingley."

Jane's cheeks reddened. "I'm sure there will be other ladies at the ball to attract Mr. Bingley's attention."

"Yes, but none will be so nice, nor as sweet, as you," Lizzy teased her.

"I do wish I could come to the ball," Lydia moaned dramatically. "It is the greatest slight of my life that Mother will not let me go."

"At least you'll have me for company," Kitty consoled her soothingly. "And perhaps we shall be permitted to visit Meryton instead." Lydia's face brightened as she considered this prospect. The two girls excused themselves and ran from the room in the highest of spirits, probably to request permission to go to Meryton.

"Well, that's them gone," the Doctor commented rudely after they had left. "Suddenly the average IQ of this room just increased by a hundred."

Clara seemed to find this tremendously funny, but neither Jane nor Elizabeth understood the joke. "I must say I don't understand half the things you say, Mr. Smith," Jane remarked.

"Scotland," Clara answered. "It's like a different planet sometimes. _Very much_ like a different planet." She glanced covertly at the Doctor to see if he had picked up on her little joke. He had, and he evidently wasn't amused.

"Quite," Jane answered doubtfully. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I should start getting ready for the ball…" She offered Clara a parting smile and gracefully exited the kitchen.

Excitement shone in Elizabeth's eyes. "Shall we go choose a dress for you?" she asked Clara eagerly.

"Yeah, why not?" The two woman got up and trailed after Jane, chatting animatedly, leaving the Doctor on his own.

He glowered after them. "This is ridiculous," he moaned to thin air. "Absolutely ridiculous."

"Pink. There's so much pink. It looks like a roll of bubble gum exploded in here! Why is there so much pink?" Clara was thoroughly unimpressed by the state of Lydia's closet. Most of the clothes were a hideous shade of baby pink. Only one of the dresses was a decent color – a deep gold – but the dress itself was covered with so many ridiculous ribbons and baubles that Clara shuddered just thinking about it, let alone looking at it.

"Why, it is the most fashionable color at the moment," Elizabeth cried in some surprise. "To be honest, I haven't quite taken a fancy to it myself, but Lydia certainly has. What is the current fashion in Blackpool, if not pink?"

"Erm… I dunno, red, I suppose…" Clara trailed away uncertainly, not knowing enough about nineteenth-century fashion in England to continue. "But I am not wearing any of these. They're all hideous."

"I would offer you one of my dresses, but…" Elizabeth paused, not sure how to address the problem of Clara's shortness, and finally settled on, "I think you would perhaps have a difficult time of dancing in a dress so long."

"I don't suppose there's any chance I could just wear this?" Clara asked hopefully, gesturing to her knee-high green and black plaid dress and black stockings.

Elizabeth shook her head gently but firmly. "Best not to."

Clara sighed. "Oh well. I guess I could wear one of these monstrosities if I really had to. I just really hope the Doctor hasn't got a camera."

Just outside the door, leaning against the wall where he'd been eavesdropping, the Doctor closed his eyes and frowned. Dresses, dresses… Didn't he have some dresses in the TARDIS? Left over from that wacky wardrobe exchange thing he'd taken Amy and Rory to once on Titanus-7B? The dresses would be too tall for Clara, considering that Amy was practically made of legs, but he did have a sonic screwdriver. It would be the work of a minute to make a few adjustments.

 _Oh, Clara. The things I do for you_ , the Doctor sighed to himself. He silently tiptoed downstairs, opened the front door, and slipped outside.

One and a half hours later:

"You look great," Clara assured both Elizabeth and Jane, feeling annoyed at herself for being just a tiny bit jealous of their dresses. She couldn't help wishing that Lydia's outfits had been slightly less pink so that she could have borrowed one of them. She was, however, pleased with her hairstyle. With the help of Elizabeth, she had tucked her rich brown locks into a swirly bun that sat on the top of her head, leaving her bangs across her forehead.

Jane smiled thoughtfully at her pale blue ballgown, tucking a stray strand of hair back into her intricate hairdo. "I do hope Mr. Bingley thinks the same."

Clara had to refrain herself from telling her that he certainly would. Being involved in the events of a book without giving any of them away was harder than she would have thought.

Elizabeth led the way to the bedroom door, her silky emerald gown swishing gently on the floor as she walked. "I apologize that we couldn't find you a gown, but I think everyone will be able to overlook your current outfit. Don't worry."

Clara smiled and followed her and Jane downstairs. "Doctor, I hope you're ready to – Doctor?" She frowned as she entered the kitchen. Where was that infuriating man? He'd completely vanished.

She spun in a circle in case he was behind a door, waiting to jump out and scare her (it had happened before), but no one was there. She stamped her foot. "Ugh. I hate that man sometimes."

Elizabeth and Jane cast shocked looks at each other behind Clara's back – it was practically the equivalent of sacrilege to speak that way. "Clara, I don't mean to pry," Elizabeth began hesitantly, "but why do you say that? And… why do you call him Doctor instead of Mr. Smith, or John?"

Clara opened her mouth and then closed it again, not sure how to answer the first question. She hadn't actually expected anyone to ask either of those questions, so she was unprepared to answer them. Then again, according to the book, Elizabeth was an asker of unexpected questions, so maybe she should have expected them. "Well," she answered finally, "I don't really hate him. In fact… I love him. A lot. He's my best friend. And I call him Doctor because that's what he is – a doctor."'

Neither of the girls seemed satisfied by these answers, but they never got the chance to dispute them. For, at that moment, the front door swung open with a crash, and the Doctor suddenly stood in the doorway.

Clara gasped and held a hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Doctor…" she breathed.

He was holding a beautiful crimson dress with gold trim and puffed sleeves. Scarlet ribbons adorned the bodice, joining together to form the shape of a rose. More ribbons, these ones outlined in gold, circled the dress's skirt.

"I got you a dress," the Doctor stated gruffly. "Found it in the back of the TAR- " His eyes flicked to Jane and Elizabeth. "Carriage," he amended.

Clara took it from him and held it in the air, her mouth open in admiration. It was the most stunning piece of clothing she'd ever seen. She slowly turned her head to face the Doctor, who was watching her silently. In that moment, she loved him with every fibre of being – that crazy, impossible man who dragged her off to every corner of the universe and who could pull dresses out of hats. He was her Doctor, and she was never letting him go. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you so much."

Suddenly ridiculously excited, she beamed at him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before darting upstairs to change.

The Doctor's mouth twitched in a smile as he held a hand to his cheek. Normally he wiped off or shrugged away Clara's silly little tokens of affection. But he let this one stay.

When he looked up, he found that Elizabeth and Jane were staring at him with both awe and approval. He cleared his throat brusquely and turned away. When he glanced over his shoulder a few seconds later, he found that they had gone outside to hail the carriage.

Clara reappeared a few minutes later and performed a slow twirl, her dress swishing around her ankles. "Good thing I wore flats instead of heels, or I'd be in so much trouble. What do you think? How do I look?"

"Well, you look fifty instead of sixty," the Doctor commented dryly. "And you could do with some makeup."

The smile dropped off her face. "Great. Thanks."

He sighed. "You look fine." Actually, he thought she looked gorgeous, but he wasn't about to tell her that. Not ever.

"You know," she murmured thoughtfully, "I just realized something. This dress fits me exactly. _Exactly_. Did you measure me in my sleep or something? That's a bit creepy."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "I think the carriage is waiting. We'd better go."

There was a mischievous twinkle in Clara's eyes as she slipped a hand under his elbow. "Come on then."

He smiled at the eagerness shining in her eyes and escorted her outside.


	14. Chapter 14: May I Have This Dance? 3

**Whew, this chapter is insanely long. It's also, in my humble opinion, the best installment of the three. PLEASE review if you enjoy reading this, I'd love to know what you thought about it and how I could improve my writing in the future!**

 **Two things I'd like to mention: Firstly, this story has over 20 reviews now. Thanks everyone!**

 **Secondly: Since I am currently brain-dead, and I've got absolutely no ideas for the next chapters, I've decided to introduce a thing (I know, very descriptive.) I am thinking that I'll write my next few chapters based on prompts from you guys, but here's the thing: the prompts can only be a word or a phrase. For er example, if your prompt was 'hedgehog', I would have to somehow involve hedgehogs in the next chapter. I think that would be super fun and creative both for me and you guys. So, if you think that's a good idea, please leave me a review with your prompt in it.**

 **Enough blabbing from me - enjoy the story!**

The carriage was indeed waiting in the drive, harnessed to two powerful black horses that were stamping and pawing the ground in anticipation. One of them whinnied loudly, and the Doctor frowned at it. "Language!"

A footman bowed and opened the carriage door, holding out a hand for Clara to take as she stepped inside. She refused it – an unwise decision, as her wide dress actually got stuck in the doorway. Sensing that the Doctor was coming up behind her, she hissed, "If you shove me I will _kill_ you." She finally managed to squeeze through and decided to carry on as though nothing had happened. Fortunately for the Doctor, she didn't see his smirk.

Suddenly Clara registered the presence of Mrs. Bennet, who was staring coldly at her, as though being a friend of the Doctor's automatically made you someone to be glared at. Due to the woman's considerable girth, there was only room for one person to sit next to her. Jane and Elizabeth, sitting opposite their mother, had left room for one person to sit between them. Clara glanced back at the Doctor. His eyes held a silent plea: _Don't make me sit next to Mrs. Bennet. Please._

She shook her head imperceptibly. _You sit next to her_.

 _No, you_.

 _You_.

 _Please_?

 _Sorry, mate. You're on your own_.

His eyes flicked to her dress. _But I got you a nice outfit_.

 _Thanks for the_ _outfit. Now go sit next to that toad_. Clara smiled and sat in the space between the Bennet sisters, allowing her dress to flow out onto the floor. With a heavy sigh, the Doctor seated himself next to Mrs. Bennet and scooted away from her as far as possible, looking for all the world like some sort of spider, hunched miserably as he was against the window.

"You'll be the talk of the ball in that dress," Elizabeth told her admiringly.

"I certainly hope not," Clara answered, frowning, imagining how embarrassing it would be if Mr. Darcy fell in love with _her_ instead of with Elizabeth.

The driver started up the carriage, cracking his whip in the air. "You just missed my father and Mary," Jane explained, raising her voice so as to be heard over the clip-clop of the horses' hooves. "They went for a walk to town. And Kitty and Lydia sent their apologies that they were not able to see you off; they left for Meryton some minutes ago."

Clara recalled that in _Pride and Prejudice_ , all the Bennet sisters had attended the ball. Evidently, not _everything_ in this parallel world was like the book.

After that the carriage ride progressed in merry conversation. Even the Doctor began to take part, regaling amusing stories of events that Clara wasn't sure had really happened to him or not (He only began to participate, however, after Clara had shot him a death glare that said, _Be social. Now_.). Mrs. Bennet, on the other hand, maintained a stony silence the whole way to the Bingley estate. Even the prospect of a ball was not enough to make her forget her disdain for the Doctor.

About twenty minutes later, their carriage pulled to a stop in front of an imposing mansion, outlined in golden light cast by the sun. Eager to escape the confines of the vehicle – and Mrs. Bennet's glares – the Doctor shot to his feet, opened the carriage door, and hopped outside before the horses had even stopped moving. Clara gracefully gathered her crimson skirts into a heap and stepped out after him, followed by Jane, Elizabeth, and their mother.

She eyed the mansion with interest. Its white walls contrasted sharply with its dark roof, which was lined with spires. More windows than she could count were set into the front wall, and two solid pillars stood on either side of the mahogany front door. The mansion was surrounded by rolling fields and clumps of trees, and a brook that fed into a rippling pond was nestled into the hillside in the distance.

Stones crunched beneath the horses' hooves as the carriage rolled away again, presumably to the carriage-house that was to the left of the Netherfield Mansion. As it departed, Clara realized that someone was whispering behind her. She glanced back. Mrs. Bennet had her hand on Jane's arm, and was urgently murmuring a list of instructions in her ear. "Remember, tonight is the night that you must fully win Mr. Bingley's heart. Smile freely and often and say yes if he offers you a dance. You may dance with someone else if they ask you, but not too often. Eat very little, stay as near Mr. Bingley as possible, be as witty as you can…"

Clara barely managed to suppress a giggle. If only Mrs. Bennet knew that her instructions were completely useless – Jane and Mr. Bingley would end up together with or without her silly advice.

The party of five headed for the mansion's front door, where a footman clad in red and white was waiting. He bowed and opened the door for them, his good breeding not allowing him to ask who the two unexpected guests were. The Doctor glanced up at the ceiling as they entered and his eyes almost popped out of his head. "Clara, that's a Cryston chandelier!" he hissed in Clara's ear. "There are only four of them in the entire universe! They're made on the planet Kylor, out of pure Cryston. Cryston is an extremely rare allotrope of the element Durinium. One ounce of it costs a billion billion Earth dollars. How on earth did a Cryston chandelier end up…well, on earth?"

Clara hadn't heard a single word of his impressive speech. She was too busy admiring the house itself – and the people inside it.

Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of varied content. Swarms of people milled about them, chattering happily and occasionally breaking into bursts of laughter. As Clara stared about the entrance hall, her eyes wide, a young gentleman with red-gold hair and twinkling blue eyes hurried over to the party. He had eyes only for Jane, so Clara supposed he was Mr. Bingley. He was sharply dressed in a TARDIS blue coat and white stockings. "Welcome, welcome!" he cried jovially. "It is a pleasure to have you all here!" His eyes flicked to Clara and the Doctor and he started noticeably, but regained his composure in a remarkably short amount of time. "And whom might I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"I'm John. John Smith. And this is Clara, my…" He cleared his throat. "Wife."

Clara smirked at his discomfort, but said nothing. Instead she smiled gratefully at Mr. Bingley. "We are _ever_ so honored to be here," she assured him, performing a tiny curtsy.

Jane took it upon herself to explain their presence. "They are travelers coming from Blackpool whom Elizabeth met earlier today. We thought perhaps we could entertain them a little before they had to leave town."

Mr. Bingley smiled widely. "An ever so noble enterprise. Well, friends of Jane are friends of mine, and I bid you both welcome." He nodded pleasantly to Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet and took Jane by the arm. "Come, we are about to eat."

Clara and the Doctor trailed behind Jane and Mr. Bingley as they went into the dining room, which was opposite the front door. "Did you hear a word I said about the Cryston chandelier?" the Doctor asked.

She frowned. "The what?"

He sighed. "Never mind."

In the middle of the dining room was a long table adorned with a creamy white tablecloth. In fact, it was a _very_ long table – it was set for thirty people. Never a man to forget his manners, Mr. Bingley had two more chairs placed at the ends of the table to accommodate the arrival of the two unexpected guests. "I bid you all, eat and drink to your heart's content," the gentleman instructed his guests. "The party has only just begun."

At once the guests began to seat themselves. Mr. Bingley sat at the head of the table, since he was the host of the affair. Mrs. Bennet, thankfully, planted herself as far away from the Doctor and Clara as possible. Clara found herself sandwiched between Elizabeth and the Doctor. Two young ladies who looked rather like Mr. Bingley were seated across from her, eyeing her with disdain. On the right of the two ladies was an extremely handsome, distinguished-looking gentleman with dark hair and fashionably scruffy stubble. Clara found herself eyeing him appreciatively until she realized that he was Mr. Wickham ( **AN: Not sure I included him in the summary I wrote. Let's just put it this way: he's kind of an unsavory character**.) Wrinkling her nose in disgust as she remembered his character defects, Clara hastily looked away… and found that Elizabeth was obviously admiring him as well. She wondered if she should warn her against him and eventually decided against it.

As soon as everyone was seated, two footmen marched into the room, each of them bearing a silver platter. They silently progressed around the table until they had served every last person, and then they left the room as suddenly as they had come.

Clara eyed the thing that had just been placed on her plate with some trepidation. It was white and bowl-shaped, and was topped with a mass of sauce that looked like vomit. "What is this…?" she asked hesitantly out of the corner of her mouth so that only the Doctor could hear.

"I believe it's baked oyster," he replied thoughtfully. He picked up his oyster and took a large bite of it. "It's not bad, either."

"Ewww, that's vile." Clara pushed her plate away. She looked up to see the Bingley sisters staring at her as though she had grown a third head. "Stomach problems," she explained feebly. "Can't eat… certain things… like oysters."

To her relief, the next course consisted of a hearty leek and potato stew, which was rather good. Clara demolished her entire serving and found herself wishing for more, but decided that it probably wasn't in the nineteenth-century etiquette book to take more than you were given. The next course was brought out a few minutes later on a large silver platter. It was a colossal hunk of unidentifiable meat. She thought that it might be chicken, but she really couldn't tell. However, it didn't taste too bad, and she was able to eat her whole portion. "Doctor, what was that?" she asked him. "Tasted a bit like chicken. And beef."

"Well, I'll try mine and tell you. Could be beef or some kind of steak thing. Could even be both, but I don't think they've discovered meat-grafting technology just yet. Hang on." He cautiously cut off a chunk of the meat and placed it in his mouth. "Yeah, I can't really tell. Think it might be venison."

Clara stared down at her plate as her stomach did a slow roll. "I just ate Bambi," she muttered unhappily. "Ergh."

Two more courses later (pasta with tomatoes and cheese and a platter of fresh fruits and cheeses) Clara was feeling quite full as well as quite content (apart from the memory of the mystery meat). The conversation around the dinner table had been both intriguing and stimulating, and she had participated enthusiastically. No one seemed to remember that she was an uninvited guest. Or maybe they did remember, but they were just too polite to mention it.

Plum pudding and wine were served to everyone, and the talk turned to lighter matters. "Are you enjoying yourself?" Elizabeth asked her earnestly.

"Oh, yes. Very much." Clara caught Wickham smiling lazily at her and frowned at him. How long had he been staring at her? "Very much indeed."

Wickham, suddenly realizing that he'd been caught in the act, leaned across the table and hastily engaged Elizabeth in conversation. Clara's gaze flicked over to the Bingley sisters. "…what a gaudy dress," the one on the left whispered, eyeing Clara scornfully. "And what a horrendous accent! Did you ever hear the like? She's certainly not from such a sophisticated area as _we_ are."

"Cow," Clara muttered venomously to herself. "Who does she think she is?"

Finally the conversation died away and Bingley rose to his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think I speak for us all when I say… Let the dancing begin!"

A round of applause rippled around the table as everyone rose to their feet and made their way to the ballroom, which was adjacent to the dining room. The ballroom had a high ceiling which sported two crystalline chandeliers and a floor of pristine white marble. The walls were lined with windows that overlooked the hills. A string quartet was stationed in one corner.

Clara settled herself in one of the chairs placed at intervals around the ballroom and watched with interest as several couples proceeded to the middle of the room. As the string quartet launched into a cheerful waltz, the dancers began to swirl and sway, the vivd, shimmering dresses of the ladies whirling hypnotically. Clara grinned as she noticed Jane dancing with Mr. Bingley, her eyes shining with affection.

Two gentleman were standing against the opposite wall, conversing with each other. Clara wondered if either of them were Mr. Darcy – she hadn't been able to determine which of the gentlemen was him yet.

She recognized Elizabeth among the crowd, dancing with a gentleman with ginger hair. She looked absolutely miserable. Clara watched in sympathy as the man, blissfully ignorant of his inability to dance, trod on Elizabeth's feet. "D'you think that's Mr. Collins?" she asked the Doctor, who was leaning against the wooden wall next to her.

"I suppose so," he grunted.

Clara noticed that he was standing in a hunched fashion with his back to the crowd. "What are you doing?"

A green light flickered briefly on the wall, accompanied by the gentle buzz of his sonic screwdriver. "Scanning the walls."

"I thought your screwdriver didn't work on wood."

"Exactly. It doesn't. I was scanning it because I thought it didn't look exactly like wood, and I wanted to see for myself."

"And?" she prompted.

"And… it's not wood."

"Well, _obviously_. What is it?"

"It's Dargentum, a substance that looks and feels like wood but has a very different chemical composition. It can only be found on the planet Kylor. That's odd… the chandelier in the entrance hall was from Kylor too… something's going on in this house."

"Do you think the person who built it is an alien?" Clara wanted to know.

He unobtrusively slipped his sonic device back in his pocket. "Maybe. I don't know."

Clara gazed at the guests, suddenly seeing them in a new light. What if one of them were actually an alien?

Her inner musings were interrupted as a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. She glanced up and her heart sank as she discovered that Wickham was standing in front of her, smiling roguishly. "Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?" he inquired, his voice deep and mellifluous.

"Do I look like I'm single?" Clara snapped, gesturing to the Doctor. "I've got a partner, thanks very much. Bye." She stood up, grabbed the Doctor's arm, and marched away, leaving Wickham staring after her in shock.

"That was rude," the Doctor breathed in her ear.

"I don't care. He's a jerk. I'm not dancing with him."

"Yes, but now that you told him that, we have to dance or he'll come ask you again," he complained.

"Well, I'd rather dance with you than with him. I think," Clara added uncertainly. "Can you even dance?"

"Erm, I think so. My last two regenerations could, but I don't quite know all the things this body can do just yet. Hang on, can _you_ dance?"

"Let's find out," she whispered mischievously, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He awkwardly placed a hand on her waist and gripped her hand in his. "Wait, I suppose I should ask you… may I have this dance?"

Her mouth twitched in a smile. "Of course." A second later, the music started up again.

They began to sway in time with the other couples, spinning in a slow circle as they did so. Clara's bold red dress fanned out behind her, drawing the admiring eyes of many of the ladies, and even some of the gentlemen. She caught Elizabeth's eye and winked. She was now dancing with a dark-haired man with an imperious face and a firm jaw. Presumably, he was Mr. Darcy. Lizzy didn't look any happier dancing with him than she had while she had been dancing with Mr. Collins. Little did she know how greatly Darcy would surprise her in the coming days.

Clara allowed herself to be carried away by the music. The Doctor lifted his arm and she twirled in a full circle beneath it, coming to rest on his shoulder as he supported her with his other arm. He stared down at his petite companion and smiled fondly to himself.

The dancing continued in the same fashion for the next few minutes, a series of spins and twirls. Finally, as the music swelled to a crescendo and then died out, Clara curtsied to the Doctor and he performed a small bow in return, following the example of the other couples around the room.

"I suppose you _can_ dance," he conceded.

"So can you."

The string quartet appeared to be on break, so the dancers began to talk amongst themselves. The Doctor took Clara's arm and led her a short distance from the group. "We should go. Holes in the walls between universes usually don't last very long. The one we fell through will probably close soon, and if it does, we'll be trapped in here."

Clara was about to argue, but then she thought better of it. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. We've been here long enough."

He nodded silently, glad to see that she trusted him enough to listen to him. "You can go make our excuses for leaving early."

"Always leaving me to do the grunt work," she teased him. Then a thought struck her, and the smile faded from her face. "Doctor… I don't suppose we could ever come back here, could we?"

He shook his head once. That was all the answer she needed. She sighed and turned away, preparing to make her goodbyes.

Elizabeth suddenly intercepted her path. "Clara, there you are. How did you enjoy the dancing?"

"It was great," she answered, her spirits buoyed by Elizabeth's cheerfulness.

"Well, I'm glad you managed to enjoy yourself. I have had the _worst_ luck with dancing partners. First Mr. Collins and then Mr. Darcy. I assure you, Mr. Darcy is the most stubborn, impertinent, insufferable man you will ever lay eyes upon. Do you know, he insulted me to my face last time I saw him! I only accepted his offer to dance because I was so stunned that he asked me that I did not know what to say. I wish never to see that man again."

Clara stifled a laugh. "Give him a second chance. You never know. He might surprise you."

"You speak as though you know him yourself," she commented with some surprise.

"Sort of, yeah." Clara clasped her friend's hands. "Listen, I've got to go. My sister is waiting for me. I've stayed too long already."

"But how will you go? There is no carriage."

"Erm, I think my… husband… told the driver where we'd be when he went to collect my dress."

"Are you sure you cannot stay another hour?"

"Perfectly sure."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Will you perhaps be coming through here again on your way back to Blackpool? It would be lovely to see you again."

Clara sighed. She hated to lie to Elizabeth, but it was the only way she could possibly explain her reason for never coming back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mention this to you before, but my sister lives in France. We only happened to pass through here because it was on the way to London, where we're going to take a boat across the Channel. But after we get to France and see my sister… well, my husband has decided to move to Italy. He says there's more business there for him. Something like that. I don't think we'll be coming back here again." She was almost stunned by how easily the lie slipped out of her mouth. Being with the Doctor had evidently greatly improved her lying skills.

Elizabeth's face was despondent. "That is wretched news. Well, Clara, I am ever so glad you could stay, even for just a few hours. I will miss you sorely." She threw her arms around Clara's neck and hugged her tightly.

Clara hugged her back. Although they had only met a few hours ago, she felt as though she had known Elizabeth her whole life. "I'll miss you too. Thanks so much. For everything."

Elizabeth drew away and fumbled for something around her neck. She held her hand out to Clara. "I want you to have this, as a reminder of your stay here. It has been mine as long as I can remember, but now it is yours."

Clara gasped. Elizabeth was holding a thin golden chain that bore a pearly-white, swan-shaped pendant. She cupped her hand under Elizabeth's, and the necklace was poured into her palm. "I don't know what to say," she breathed. "Are you sure?"

She nodded assurance. "Keep it, and think of me."

"I will," Clara promised. "Thank you, Elizabeth. And please give Jane and Mr. Bingley my apologies."

"Apologies for what?" Mr. Bingley's voice queried from behind her.

She whirled around. Both Jane and Mr. Bingley were eyeing her with curiosity. "I'm sorry, but I have to go," she explained simply. She knew that Elizabeth would explain later that she wouldn't be returning.

Jane, however, smart as she was, seemed to perceive an inkling of Clara's intentions. She hugged her affectionately. "Farewell, Clara. Good luck with your travels."

Clara returned the embrace. "Good luck with Mr. Bingley," she whispered into her ear.

Jane blushed and stepped back as Mr. Bingley stepped forward. "It has been a pleasure to have you here, Miss Oswald." He gallantly bent and kissed her hand.

Clara cleared her throat and unobtrusively attempted to wipe the kiss on her dress. "Erm, thanks for accommodating me on such short notice."

"My pleasure." He smiled at Clara one last time and led Jane back to the group of dancers. Clara walked back to the Doctor and slipped her hand underneath his elbow. As they left the ballroom, she glanced back and spied Elizabeth watching her. She managed a parting wave with the hand that wasn't holding her new necklace before the Doctor closed the door behind them.

Together, they left Netherfield Hall in silence. By now, the sun had set completely, and the sky was alight with thousands of gently shimmering stars. "It looks so beautiful, without all the pollution," Clara breathed softly.

For once the Doctor was in agreement with her. "It does."

"I wonder how many of those stars you've taken me to. Probably at least – hang on." Clara stopped in her tracks as something she recalled something that Mr. Bingley had said to her before she left.

"What's wrong? Did you leave something behind? I really hope not, that would be–"

"Shut up. Just shut up." Clara held up her hand to ensure that he stopped speaking. She replayed the moment in her mind, trying to make sure that she was remembering the instance correctly and that she hadn't just imagined it.

She wasn't imagining it. "Doctor, back there when we were leaving, Mr. Bingley called me Miss Oswald after he kissed my hand."

"Well, that's your name, isn't it? Unless you've decided to – "

"Just listen. He called me Miss Oswald… but I never told him my last name!"

The Doctor frowned. "What? Rubbish. That's not possible."

"Doctor, I'm telling you, I know what I heard!" she shouted. "He called me Miss Oswald. And then he – _ow_!" A stinging pain suddenly stabbed the back of her hand – the same one that Mr. Bingley had kissed. She couldn't really tell in the dark, but she was certain that her hand looked different than before. "Doctor, shine your sonic screwdriver on my hand."

The urgent tone of her voice told him that he had better listen to her. He fished around in his pockets, muttering something that sounded like, 'shouldn't have got these pockets made to be bigger on the inside', and finally fished out his screwdriver. He pressed a button and a beam of piercing green light snapped on from its tip.

Clara's breath hitched. In the light, it was easy to tell that a dark red rash had suddenly bloomed on the back of her hand. "That was _not_ there before."

The Doctor's eyes widened. He took Clara's hand in his and peered at it intensely. "I know what this is," he stated grimly. "And I know what it's from."

"Is it dangerous?" she demanded.

"No. You'll be fine in a day or two. But we have to get back to the TARDIS right now. Mr. Bingley's DNA is on your hand, and I want to scan it before it fades away, just to make sure that I'm right."

"Don't be ridiculous. DNA doesn't fade away," she scoffed. "And right about what?"

Instead of answering her, he took off across the drive, racing through the meadow near Netherfield like a jackrabbit. "Doctor, I can't run! I'm in a dress!" she called after him.

Of course, there was no response. Clara muttered some choice words under her breath before hitching up her skirts, dropping Elizabeth's necklace around her neck so she wouldn't lose it, and jogging after him.

The half hour that followed was the longest half hour of her life. It was spent running across the fields of the English countryside, tripping over rocks and trying to avoid stepping in puddles. When the TARDIS was finally in sight, Clara almost burst into tears of relief. The Doctor was waiting for her in the doorway, silhouetted in white light. Clara stumbled up to him and collapsed against his chest, gasping for breath. "Good cross-country practice," he commented cheerfully. "If you take cross-country, that is."

He didn't sound tired at all. Clara, absolutely furious, thumped her fist against his shoulder. "I… hate… you," she croaked. "Never again."

He glanced at her dress and noticed that the rim of the skirt was completely saturated (Clara, thinking a puddle was a rock in her exhaustion, had tried to kick it away and had instead splashed herself with water). "You're ruining the dress!"

"And whose fault is that?" she hissed, dragging herself into the TARDIS and crumpling to the floor in a heap of crimson folds. "Oh, right: _Yours_ , for making me run across the whole of England in _this_!" She gestured weakly to her outfit, simultaneously brushing her bangs off her forehead.

The TARDIS's engines hummed amusedly, as though she were laughing at Clara's predicament. Clara wearily shook her fist at the time machine, having no more energy left to yell.

The Doctor was wise enough to refrain from saying that the 'whole of England' was probably an exaggeration. Instead, he crouched down next to Clara and sonicked her hand.

"What are you doing?" she asked exhaustedly.

"Absorbing the DNA from that kiss." He stood up and crossed over to the TARDIS console, plugging his screwdriver into a small hole in the structure. "The TARDIS is ready to leave, and I've already programmed her to automatically close the hole in the wall of this universe after we fly out of it, but I want to scan this DNA first." As he spoke, one of the screens built into the console lit up and started flashing strings of numbers. It emitted a soft pinging noise at the display stopped on one of the strings. A green check mark popped up next to the number on the screen, and the Doctor nodded his head in satisfaction. "I thought so."

"Thought what?" Clara grunted, somehow managing to pick herself up from the floor.

"A while ago," he began, "a prisoner escaped from the planet Kylor. This news was universal. _Everyone_ knew about the escaped prisoner. He was a notorious criminal, a native Kylorian. Absolute mastermind, too. He could do anything he put his mind to. Which is dangerous, when you're a criminal.

"Anyway," he continued, maneuvering around the TARDIS as he prepared to take off, "He managed to escape from the prison. He needed somewhere to hide. And so he thought, where better to hide than in a different body, in a different universe? It was a good solution. Even I've done that – hidden myself in human form. Poor Martha, I don't think she enjoyed that little adventure very much… never mind. Well, this prisoner fashioned a new body for himself – a human body. He made himself human. He made himself forget that he was ever an alien from the planet Kylor, and he gave himself false human memories.

"It was a great way to hide – but he overlooked one crucial detail. When you change your body like that, you have to hide everything that you used to be – your consciousness, your thoughts, everything – inside some object that can be easily accessed again. And then you have to give it to someone, so that they can give you back your real self if necessary. But this prisoner, he made a fatal mistake. He kept the object he'd hidden his real self in."

"So when he became a human, he forgot that his real self was inside that object," Clara finished.

"Exactly. The prisoner just vanished. No one could find him. The trail went stone cold.

" _But_ ," he murmured slyly, "when he left, he couldn't resist stealing one last time. There were reports of two things missing from the mansion of the Prime Minister of Kylor: a Cryston chandelier, and, well… the outer layer of Dargentum that encased the house. Don't ask me how the prisoner managed to steal it, I have no idea. But when the prisoner vanished, the chandelier and the Dargentum vanished at the same time. When I saw them at Netherfield tonight, I began to suspect that something was wrong. But this DNA on your hand confirms it, Clara. Kylorians' most distinct feature is that their spit has the same chemical composition as poison ivy. It can cause rash. Just like that rash on your hand there. And the remnant of their spit dries up really quickly, as though it were never there – which is why I wanted to get you back to the TARDIS as soon as possible, before the kiss faded away."

"Oh my stars," Clara breathed, beginning to piece it together.

"When he landed in this universe, he built himself a place to live, making sure to use the materials he had stolen from Kylor. And then he changed his biological composition, making himself human. He forgot everything: he forgot he'd built the house, he forget he'd stolen material, he forgot he was a Kylorian prisoner. He believed he was a man from London with two sisters – he must've bribed them somehow while he was still an alien to pretend to be his sisters. He came down here from London, saw the house, decided he liked it, and moved in."

"Oh my _stars_ ," Clara murmured again. "Mr. Bingley is an alien!" A thought suddenly struck her. "But what about Jane? Is she safe with him? I mean, I don't want her marrying an escaped prisoner. And how did he know my name?"

"Perfectly safe," the Doctor promised. "He chose a good personality for himself when he was creating his identity. Mr. Bingley is a good man. He'll never remember who he used to be. As for your name… well, to be honest, my reputation precedes me. The prisoner probably knew I was out there and realized that I would try to capture him again. While he was still an alien, he probably spied on me to make sure I didn't come after him, and, well… if he spied on me, he must have seen you as well. I suppose your name stuck with him even after he became a human. And he probably doesn't even know why he called you Miss Oswald. In fact, I bet he's wondering about it right now." The Doctor winked at his companion and pulled a lever on the console. "Now let's go to Jundmon. And you might want to change your clothes."

Clara looked stricken. "Oh no, I left my clothes back at the Bennets' house. I wonder how Mrs. Bennet will react to that." She suddenly perked up. "Well, Mister, that means you get to take me shopping."

"I can't wait," the Doctor sighed drily as the familiar groaning noise of the TARDIS's engines filled the air.

"Mr. Bingley is an alien! I still can't believe it!" Clara's infectious laughter rang through the TARDIS as it faded into nothingness, a barely visible square indent in the grass the only sign that it had ever been there.

 **Bit nervous about that explanation of the whole alien thing at the end; I hope it was easy to understand. Also, just a random side note, I thought it would be super adorable if Clara and the Doctor had a conversation with their eyes:D**

 **Thanks for reading. I look forward to reading your prompts and reviews!**


	15. Chapter 15: Down Day

**Well, I got two prompts since I introduced the new prompt system in the last chapter. I'll take them in the order I got them, so without further ado, here is the first prompt!**

 **Okay, just a tiny bit of 'further ado'. This chapter is short but sweet, and I'm honestly sort of proud of it. I think it turned out well. Let me know what you think, and leave me a prompt if you want. Speaking of which, the next chapter should be quite interesting - I got a great prompt from a guest.**

 **Enjoy and review if you wish. I'd appreciate it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, sadly, but I wish I could own Clara Oswald. She's too precious.**

PROMPT FROM Hamster_the_Angel: "STORM"

The rain started just as Clara neared her front door, her petite frame hunched beneath the weight of three overfull grocery bags that she was toting on her shoulder. She sighed wearily, laying her bags on the step and fumbling in her jacket for the key to her flat. By the time she'd finally found it, the fat droplets falling from the sky had already drenched both her and her groceries, and were now pooling on the doorstep. Clara gave vent to her frustration by somewhat childishly sticking her tongue out at the roiling gray clouds overhead - being drenched to the bone was _not_ helping her mood.

As the intensity of the storm increased, she desperately tried to maneuver the grocery bags over the threshold with her feet. Finally she stumbled inside her flat, almost blinded by the searing force of the raindrops, slammed the door, and sagged against the wall, sighing with relief.

"Ah, Clara! There you are. I made tea," a cheery voice suddenly announced from behind her.

Clara shrieked and whirled around, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. "Oh my stars! You scared me!" she chided the Doctor.

"Oh, sorry," he apologized at once, scooping up her grocery bags and setting them on the table by the door. "Didn't mean to."

She stared at him suspiciously. "Okay, two questions. Question one: what the hell are you doing in my flat?"

He opened his mouth and then shut it again, evidently trying to work out an answer that would stave off her suspicion. "Erm... well... I just... came to see you," he explained feebly. "That's sort of it, really."

Clara removed her shoes and peered inside them, wrinkling disdainfully as she saw puddles of water sloshing around inside. "Okay, fair enough. Question two: why are you being so nice? You made me tea, and you apologized when I said you'd scared me. You're never that nice. What's going on?"

His silence gave him away, and Clara narrowed her eyes at him. "Alright, Mister. Spill the beans."

The Doctor cleared his throat and cast his eyes downwards. "Erm. Well. I got here about an hour ago, and -"

"And you were bored, and so you destroyed my flat," Clara finished flatly.

He hastened to reassure her. "No, no! Not your _whole_ flat. Just... sort of... your kitchen is kind of a mess right now; I tried to make pancakes and set the table on fire. And then I spilled all the flour on the floor." Catching a glimpse of the murderous glint in his petite companion's eye, he continued,"I made up for it though. I fixed your TV - it now has access to 2,033 channels. Seriously, _how_ were you living with only 20 channels; that's _so_ rubbish. Also, I adjusted the heights of all the doorframes to match your tininess, and I made your refrigerator bigger on the inside. _And_ I made you tea."

Clara shook her head, but amusement shone in her warm brown eyes. He'd evidently done his best to make up for the damage. "You're hopeless, you know," she told him. She collected her groceries and slid by him into the flat, giving him a quick peck on the cheek as she passed by. Tiny droplets of water rolled off her body as she walked, sinking into the carpet.

The Doctor stared after her in bewilderment. "You're wet."

 _Wow, it took him a while to figure that out_. "Noticed, thanks," she called back, dumping the groceries in her living room and causing a rain of droplets to spray against the couch as she did so.

"Why are you wet?"

Clara stared at him in disbelief. "Um, hello? There's a giant storm out there?" Right on cue, a stark flash of lightning illuminated the churning clouds and an ear-splitting peal of thunder rolled through the air, shaking the windows of the flat.

He peered out of the window with interest. "Oh, so there is."

"Too busy setting my kitchen on fire to notice, I suppose," she replied cheekily, tugging at her limp strands of hair in an attempt to remove the tangles caused by the rainfall. "Alright, I'm going to go change out of these clothes. Try not to destroy anything else. I'll be back in a bit."

She grinned at him again before turning around and heading off to her bedroom, walking slowly and gingerly in order to avoid getting water on the carpet from her saturated clothing. The Doctor stared after her in silence, watching as her slight form was lost to view.

The memory of her elfin features and roguish smile replayed itself in his mind, a warm, soft memory that filled his hearts with happiness every time he thought about it. There was something about Clara Oswald's smile that singled her out from every other human being on the planet. Those slightly upturned lips, the faint arrows at the corners of her mouth, the indent in her left cheek that made her smile look mischievous, slightly self-satisfied... beautiful. That smile could fill a whole room with the love and warmth that it expressed. That smile, that lopsided, gorgeous smile, could work wonders.

It was that smile that had first attracted the Doctor to her, that had first made him realized that he needed her. It was the sort of smile that you could _hear_. And the Doctor heard that smile in Clara's voice all the time. From the first time he heard her voice, he heard that smile, and he knew with absolute certainty just how important she'd become to him.

Clara suddenly reappeared, clad in a fuzzy, pastel blue bathrobe. Her hair, which was still noticeably damp, was now tied back in a limp ponytail. She looked absolutely adorable, but the Doctor wasn't about to say so. He hastily shook himself and turned away, trying to make it look as though he hadn't been staring after her the whole time. "Funny choice of clothes for an adventure," he commented.

She laughed, playfully poking his back. "That's 'cos we're not going on an adventure, silly. We're staying here."

"But why?" he whined childishly. "I was going to take you to Skauron-Zad today. It's a planet where everything is made of gold. And it's got the best shoe industry in the universe," he added hopefully, attempting to entice her into coming with him.

She evidently knew what he was up to, and refused to take the bait. "You're not going to get me out of this flat today, Doctor. It's raining, and I don't want to go outside. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"Not even for shoes?" he asked desperately.

"Nope," she confirmed. "You and I are going to have a down day." She settled herself on the sofa and drew her knees up to her chest, curling into a ball.

"A - a what?" he demanded, awkwardly sitting on the couch at a safe distance from his companion (he didn't want to be the recipient of any sudden hugs. And, at the same time, he sort of did. And then he felt annoyed at himself for _wanting_ to be hugged by Clara, which was why he sat as far away from her as possible, in case he felt an urge to hug back.)

"A down day," she repeated slowly. "It's when you just sort of... relax. Watch TV. Read. Do nothing. Chill, basically."

"A whole day for just being _down_?" The Doctor was disgusted by the concept. "That sounds awful."

She giggled, her cheeks dimpling. "I know, that's why I'm making you do it," she smirked.

He subsided into a disapproving silence, knowing there was no point in continuing to argue. Clara grinned to herself. _He thinks he's so cool_.

She suddenly noticed two mugs of steaming hot tea on the coffee table. She leaned forward and picked one of them up, appreciatevely sniffing its rich, soothing smell. Leaning back against the couch, Clara cautiously took a delicate sip of the tea, expecting it to be too sour or too hot (after all, the _Doctor_ had made it). Instead, to her surprise, it was done to perfection. "This is pretty good," she complimented the Doctor, cradling the mug in her hands. "Not your first time making tea, then."

He picked up his own mug, casting her an amused glance. "I may not be able to make pancakes, but tea is a necessity. Of course I know how to make tea."

"Well, good on you, then," she replied. "Best tea I've ever had."

The Doctor felt a ridiculous amount of pleasure at Clara's praise. _Don't be so stupid_ , _it's only tea_ , he berated himself. Nevertheless, he couldn't hold back the waves of happiness that surged through him whenever Clara flashed him an approving smile.

Together, they watched the storm in silence. Rain rattled the windows as lightning lit up the sky, followed by menacing rumbles of thunder. The nearby buildings were no more than hazy blobs behind the sheets of moisture that were pouring from the clouds. "They called me the Oncoming Storm, once," the Doctor finally announced, unable to bear the silence any longer. The sight of the storm had made that particular memory resurge.

Clara glanced at him, surprised by the comment. "What? Who?"

"People. Everyone." He paused, his mind awash in a flood of memories. "They... thought I was like a storm, I guess. Powerful. Dangerous. Destructive." His mouth twitched in a bitter smile.

Clara tilted her head, a strange expression on her face. She carefully set down her mug and slipped her hand into the Doctor's. "Doctor, you look at me right now. You're not a storm, d'you hear? You're not. You're -you're like a rainbow. You're mysterious, and awe-inspiring, and yeah, you have a tendency to disappear sometimes when someone gets too close to you. But that's..." she paused, searching for the right words. "It's amazing," she finally finished. "It's just... amazing."

The Doctor didn't say anything, but Clara knew that he was grateful. Without speaking, she scooted closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder, placing a tentative hand on the front of his jacket. He sighed loudly. "Oh, shut up," Clara murmured. "You know you like it."

"I know I _don't_. I told you, Clara, I'm not a hugging person." But all the same,he couldn't resist shifting so that he was a tiny bit closer to her.

The rain began to abate, and eventually stopped altogether. The roiling clouds parted, beginning to dissipate, allowing watery sunshine to peep through. Everything seemed sharper and more focused after the storm, and the shadows cast by the clouds contrasted sharply with the sunshine, casting an ethereal, unsettling hue on the world.

A beam of sunlight sliced through the clouds, resting on the floor of Clara's apartment. She stared at it, almost overwhelmed at its simple beauty, and then peered out of the window. "Look, a rainbow," she cried with childish enthusiasm, pointing gleefully to the colorful arc rippling in the sky. "Isn't it amazing?" She searched the Doctor's eyes for remembrance of their conversation.

The rainbow was reflected in Clara's eyes, making them shine brighter than ever. The Doctor glanced outside, his eyes scanning the rapidly lightening sky. "Yes," he breathed quietly. "Yes, it is."

Satisfied with the Doctor's answer, Clara finished her tea and leaned back against his elbow. Several minutes passed in this fashion. Bored and uncomfortable, the Doctor began to squirm and fidget. Clara noticed this and started to take pity on him. "If you want, we can watch Breaking Bad or something; I've got all the seasons," she offered.

He groaned. "No, I've seen all ten of them. Twice."

" _How_ many?" she asked with interest. "There are only five."

The Doctor stared at her and understanding dawned on him. "Oh right, it's only the twenty-first century. Just you wait till 2105. Breaking Bad 2."

"Are you kidding me? They started it up again?"

"Yep. I could even take you to see them, _if_ we could stop having this rubbish down day," he told her.

Clara considered the proposal. Suddenly a roguish smile lit up her face. "I reckon I've made you suffer long enough," she grinned. "Sure. Let's do it. And then we can stop at that shoe planet you mentioned; I need a new pair of heels."

"Wait - you mean we can go?" The Doctor was stunned by her sudden change of heart.

Clara got to her feet and winked. "Down days aren't really my thing anyway."

 **I think I've found my style. This is probably how many of the chapters will be written in the future: I'll have things in it that could be interpreted as Whouffaldi, but that aren't overly romantic. I'm trying to cater to both groups, even though I ship Whouffaldi myself. Please let me know what you think of this style, and if you would rather have more or less Whouffaldi-type action.**


	16. Chapter 16: Angry Squirrels

**Well, here's chapter 16, and it's very odd. I seriously don't know where this wacky idea came from. It's absolutely bonkers. But tell me what you think!**

 **IDontKnow: Thanks for the lovely review! Glad you're enjoying this.**

 **TheFezWearer15: Your prompt is next!**

 **Hamster the Angel: You're welcome, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last!**

Prompt from guest(Whovianeverlark17): "THE SQUIRRELS ARE ANGRY"

Clara sighed and rapped sharply on the TARDIS door. "Okay, I've been standing out here for five minutes, and it's freezing. Did you get lost in there or something?"

On the other side, the Doctor let out a muffled exclamation of disbelief. "Lost in my own TARDIS? Are you mad?"

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised," she muttered sourly under her breath. "You can't find your way out of a paper bag, _let alone_ a box that's bigger on the inside."

Fortunately, he didn't hear that last comment. "I'll be out in a bit," he called. "Just putting on my shoes."

Fingers of wind playfully tossed Clara's chocolatey strands of hair in a halo around her head as she rolled her eyes. _The Doctor is such a diva_ , she thought to herself. They'd just been drenched in an ill-timed rainfall on the planet Carbonia (the rain there was composed of acid that conveniently ate away at clothes but not at skin). Needless to say, they'd had to speedily hustle back to the TARDIS to procure changes of clothes before their clothing completely disintegrated.

For once in her life, however, Clara was ready _before_ the Doctor. He'd been deciding on a pair of shoes for the last five minutes. While she could understand having a fascination with shoes - she had a hundred and two pairs herself - she'd never expected the _Doctor_ , of all people, to have one.

Clara fiddled with her jacket as the wind speed increased, trying to draw up the zipper. She wished she'd chosen to wear something more substantial than tights - she'd forgotten how cold London could be in winter.

Growing impatient, she leaned closer to the TARDIS and called,"Doctor, you promised me coffee, and it's not getting any warmer out here." The TARDIS had landed in the middle of Hyde Park, and Clara was the only person in the nearby vicinity unfortunate enough to be out in such miserable weather. When the Doctor didn't deign to respond, she muttered some choice words under her breath, brushing her windswept hair out of her eyes and gingerly rubbing her nose to make sure that it hadn't gone numb from the cold.

All of a sudden the TARDIS door swung open beneath her. Startled by suddenly having nothing to lean on, Clara fell forward into the doorway with a squeak of surprise.

Her fall was halted as she slammed into the Doctor's chest. The impact probably would have hurt, but her face was so numb from the biting wind that the collision had no effect on her whatsoever.

"Have you got frostbite?" the Doctor asked concernedly. "In your toes? Because people tend to fall over a lot when they've got frostbite in their toes."

Clara sighed. "No, I haven't got... what in _God's_ name is on your head?"

The Doctor was wearing a top hat that was polished so much Clara could make out her reflection in it. It looked absurd, perched as it was on top of his beetling eyebrows. She also noticed that his left hand held a thin, silver-tipped cane. "It's... a top hat," he answered bemusedly, perplexed by the question.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know that, you numpty. It was a rhetorical question."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Because - I don't _know_! It was rhetorical! My point is, _why_ are you wearing that?"

The Doctor grinned, dramatically flourishing his cane. "Because we're in the nineteenth century, and I'm trying to blend in, and because it matches _this_ little beauty." He indicated his cane. "Sonic cane. Not as good as my screwdriver, but it works. And it'll help me blend in."

Clara's mouth twitched in a smile as she tapped the Doctor's chest. "You, blending in? That's like saying Jane Austen's a bad writer. Also, I hate to break it to you... but I'm pretty sure we're not in the nineteenth century." On cue, police sirens began to wail in the distance.

The Doctor was crestfallen. "But I was going to take you to an nineteenth century coffeehouse."

"Well, the snogbox landed us here instead, so let's go to Starbucks." Clara flicked the top hat off his head. "I'm not going to be seen in public with you wearing that."

Casting a longing glance at the hat, he reluctantly laid down the sonic cane and slipped his screwdriver into his jacket pocket instead. "Fine. Let's go." He followed his slim companion out of the TARDIS, smiling to himself at the way Clara's features lit up whenever the prospect of coffee was close at hand (She was _addicted_ to the stuff. Once, just for fun, the Doctor had hidden the three giant sacks of coffee beans she kept in her pantry in the TARDIS, to see how she would react. When Clara woke up and discovered that her coffee store had vanished overnight, she threw a temper tantrum and overturned her whole apartment to search for it. It had been rather amusing to see her so livid... however, the situation stopped being funny after she'd discovered that the Doctor had stolen the coffee and decided to pretend he was a punching bag).

The Doctor shuddered at the recollection and hurried to catch up to Clara, who was already several feet ahead. "Come on, slowpoke," she called. "It's bloody cold." Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were bright red, and her hair looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket, but her warm eyes were sparkling with exhilaration.

They walked together in silence - it was too cold to talk. The sounds of the bustling city around them were slurred and muffled by the frigid wind, almost as though Clara and the Doctor were stranded in their own little bubble through which nothing could penetrate.

Clara dug around in her jacket pocket, trying to figure out if she had enough money to buy them both coffee. To her disappointment, she only had four pounds - enough for one cup. _Looks like the Doctor'll be missing out, unless he's got his own money_. She suddenly realized that he must have _some_ form of money - how else did he pay for the things he needed? Did he have a credit card that just happened to work on every planet in the universe? Suddenly curious, Clara opened her mouth to ask him about his finances.

And then, to her surprise, the Doctor clamped a hand over her mouth.

She didn't actually mind the sensation of having his hand over her lips, but she thought she should at least _pretend_ that she did for the sake of appearances, so she let out an indignant, albeit muffled, exclamation.

"Don't move, Clara," the Doctor hissed in her ear, his curly gray locks tickling her skin. "Not a finger."

Clara scanned her surroundings, trying to figure out what had scared him, but she was unable to see anything out of the ordinary, just trees, grass, clouds, and a lone squirrel that was -

 _No way. It can't be_.

She cast a tentative glance at the Doctor. Sure enough, his eyes were riveted on the squirrel, and he was staring at it with so much intensity that she was surprised it didn't shrivel into a heap of ash.

Despite the seriousness etched into every aspect of his face, Clara couldn't resist letting out a small giggle.

"Why are you laughing?" the Doctor demanded.

She pointed to her mouth.

He sighed and reluctantly removed his hand so that she could talk. "I'm laughing because it's a squirrel, Doctor," Clara finally answered, the hint of a smile still lingering in her lips. "A squirrel. And you're looking at it like it's going to attack us."

"It might," he replied darkly, fastening his arm around Clara's elbow as if he were preparing to make a quick getaway.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "It's a _squirrel_. See?" She pulled away from him and started to walk towards the squirrel in an attempt to emphasize her point.

The Doctor's hand shot out and clasped the back of her coat. She let out a shocked squeal as he jerked her back towards him. "Don't go near the squirrel, Clara," he cautioned her in a voice that was so serious she began to doubt the creature's innocence herself. "Stay away from it."

"Why?" she demanded, feeling annoyed at herself for putting up with the Doctor's silliness for so long. "It can't hurt me. It's a squirrel." As if to prove her point, the creature propped itself up on its hind legs and squeaked endearingly.

But the Doctor's face paled. He slowly turned around, and his face paled even more. Curious as to what could have provoked such a response, Clara whirled around... and gasped.

A group of squirrels were clustered behind them, crouched on their haunches and staring at the Doctor and Clara with something akin to disapproval in their beady eyes. There must have been at least twenty squirrels, all of which were grouped in a semicircle.

"Okay, _that_ is a bit uncanny," Clara murmured out of the side of her mouth, edging closer to the Doctor. "Why are they doing that?"

"I don't know. That one from earlier told me to turn around, but he didn't say -"

"No. Stop." Clara held up a hand. "Wait. Did you just say it _told_ you to?"

"Well... yes." The Doctor regarded his companion bemusedly. "How else would I have known?"

"Squirrels do _not_ have a language," Clara told him slowly. "No. You did _not_ just follow a command given to you by a squirrel."

"Oh, don't be so _racist_ ," he scoffed, airily waving his hand. "Of course squirrels have a language. I mean, you wouldn't question that humans have a language, would you?"

"And you can speak Squirrel, I suppose."

"Of course."

"I don't believe you," she answered in a sing-song voice. "You're making it up."

The Doctor drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster while being surrounded by a pack of angry squirrels. "Clara Oswald, I'll have you know that I can speak just about every language this universe has ever heard," he declared firmly.

"Even that tree over there?"

"Yes, Clara, even that tree. It's wishing it could grow bananas on it. That plant next to it is wishing the dog that lives around the corner would stop urinating on it. The beetle by your foot just said it wants to change its name to John."

Clara shuddered at the mention of the insect and scooted away (she had a mortal fear of beetles) as the Doctor continued. "The -"

But he never got to finish. The squirrel they had seen earlier, having joined its comrades, now let loose a torrent of haughty chatter.

"Oh, stop it!" The Doctor frowned. "That was ages ago." Disgruntled, he repeated the sentiment in the squirrels' language, emitting a series of short barks and flowing chirps. Clara was dumbfounded, and could only stand still and watch as the Doctor communicated with the squirrels.

Finally the squirrel finished its tirade, and a long silence ensued. The Doctor rolled backwards on the balls of his feet. "Clara, the squirrels are angry," he breathed. "Very, very angry."

"Um, okay. Why are they angry?" Clara nervously slid her arm around the Doctor's elbow.

"Because of me." He cocked his head and barked a series of what were obviously questions.

Clara rolled her eyes. "How is it that you manage to inspire anger wherever you go?"

A squirrel with a black stripe on its back scampered forwards and answered the Doctor's inquiries, shaking its fist in anger. "What is it saying?" Clara whispered.

"Something along the lines of 'Run, evil giant nut-hoarders, and stay off our territory'," the Doctor replied softly.

As he spoke, the cluster of squirrels condensed into a line and launched themselves towards the Doctor and Clara, their teeth bared menacingly. "I think we'd better listen to them," the Doctor sighed, turning tail and running away.

Clara, after a moment's hesitation - she still couldn't believe they were being attacked by squirrels - followed. "This is _not_ big on dignity," she called, frantically trying to overtake the Doctor.

"Believe me, I've done worse," the Doctor answered grimly, recalling his and Amy's star whale incident on Starship UK. Now _that_ had been undignified.

Clara was grateful that her footsteps pounding against the wet grass mostly muffled the chirps and howls of the psycho squirrels behind her. She could almost pretend they were going for a jog in the park.

Suddenly something hard bounced off her head. Clara gasped and instinctively reached up to touch the spot where the missile had hit. "Did they just throw a nut at me?" she shouted. "At me, Clara Oswald?! Do they know who I am?"

"Yes, they know you're my accomplice, which automatically makes you an enemy," the Doctor replied darkly.

"Well, _that's_ reassuring," she muttered, subsiding into a grumpy silence. Chancing a look behind her, she noticed that the squirrels had increased their pace, and were almost at her heels. Closing her eyes in concentration, she pushed herself to run faster, ignoring the burning in her muscles as she caught up to the Doctor.

It became clear that he was running in a wide arc so as to reverse direction and end up back at the TARDIS. Clara, finding that her energy reserves were nearly depleted, hung on grimly to the Doctor's arm as she ran, using him to propel herself forwards. "They're coming to cut us off, the little buggers!" he yelled, gesturing to the ferocious squirrels. "At the rate they're going, and if they keep traveling in a line diagonal to our path, we won't make it to the TARDIS."

Clara was too tired to acknowledge his words. Her vision pulsed with red splotches around the edges, and she wondered if she was about to pass out. Running had never been her strong suit, even though she had to do it with the Doctor all the time.

He glanced at his companion and realized that she was flagging, falling behind. Suddenly experiencing a wave of protective warmth, he squeezed her hand reassuringly and drew her closer to him. "Come on, Clara! Almost there."

Determination flashed in her eyes. With an incoherent yell, she increased her pace yet again, running even faster than the Doctor.

He stared at her with admiration. _Clara, Clara, Clara. You surprise me every time_. The Doctor realized that even though he could speak every language in the universe, he still couldn't understand half the things that came out of his companion's mouth. He couldn't read the emotions expressed in those beautiful eyes of hers. And he never knew when she was about to do something daring and impossible. Clara Oswald - the world's biggest enigma.

They reached the TARDIS with no more than a second to spare, closing the door just as the wave of squirrels made a final lunge for their heels. Like darts or arrows, the squirrels made a thump-thump-thump noise as they slammed into the door and bounced off.

Clara's knees wobbled and she slumped against the door, her vision fading. The Doctor awkwardly caught her and held her against his chest, waiting for her to recover.

Finally her panting ceased and she was able to support herself again. Clara leaned back, a gleam in her eye. "So. Angry squirrels. Explain."

The Doctor laughed under his breath, threw off his overcoat, and crossed over to the console. "Long story short, I stole the nuts of every squirrel on the planet, and they declared me an enemy of squirrelkind." The TARDIS hummed amusedly as she remembered the incident.

"But why?" Clara stood next to him, searching his face for answers.

For a moment it seemed like the Doctor was going to answer her. Then he turned to face her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. In a rare display of emotion, he cupped her cheek in his hand and stared at her gently. "Because I _did_ ," he murmured. "And sometimes, that's the only reason you need."

All of a sudden he spun away from her and flew around to the other side of the console. "Alright, nineteenth-century coffee house," he announced briskly.

Clara groaned with pleasure and shut her eyes. "God, yes. I need coffee."

"I know," he grinned amusedly.

Her eyes flew open as a thought struck her. "Hang on, does this mean squirrels are going to hate me forever?"

The Doctor did not deign to respond, and Clara sighed. "Great. Of course they are."

As the TARDIS vanished amidst the familiar vworp-vworp of the engines, the laughter of the two best friends faded with it. But, though laughter, memory, and TARDIS alike could fade, the Doctor and Clara knew their friendship never would.

Is there even Starbucks in England? I don't know. Also, do you guys remember the sonic cane? From Let's Kill Hitler?


	17. Chapter 17: Pet Shop Planet

**Whew. This took a while to write. I'm kind of proud of it, and also kind of unsure about it, because I tried a new thing and I can't tell if it worked or not:/ Let me know what you think!**

 **Reviews and prompts are greatly appreciated! And by the way, thanks SO MUCH for almost 30 reviews! That's way more than I ever expected.**

 **On with the story.**

Prompt from TheFezWearer15: "PUPPY"

"Truth or dare?" Clara asked.

The TARDIS's engines were shut off, allowing her to float through deep space without course or direction. There were no stars nearby, no nebulae, no galaxies - just an infinite cloak of blackness that completely destroyed any concept of gravity or distance and seemed to press down upon the TARDIS like a shroud. Clara, the Doctor, and the TARDIS were three vibrant sparks of life at the center of a vast area of dusky space that expanded for millions of lightyears before succumbing to fields of stars and galaxies.

Actually, the idea was rather terrifying.

Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor sighed and threw his hands up in the air. "Do we really have to play this stupid game? It's so - so - pudding-brained!"

"Yes!" Clara giggled, her chocolatey eyes gleaming with mirth. "And you say that about everything. Come on, Doctor. Just this once."

He sighed and stared at his petite companion. She was perched on top of the railing that surrounded the console, enthusiastically swinging her legs against it like a child. The dimple in her cheek caved inwards as she grinned at him, and he irritably realized that she knew perfectly well what effect her smile was having on him.

"Fine," he grunted, spinning away and crossing his arms. "Truth."

She perked up instantly, and then frowned again. "You always choose truth. So boring. You have to choose dare next time."

She chose to interpret his silence as consent. "Okay. Um, let me think... got it. Have you ever been drunk?"

The Doctor stared at her incredulously. "Really? Are you mad? Of course I've been drunk. I'm over two thousand years old."

"Well, you don't seem like the sort to get drunk," she countered. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I had a mild headache, that's all." Noting her expression of jealousy, he smugly added,"Time Lords have much greater tolerance than humans. For everything."

"Show-off," Clara muttered, crossing out her tongue. "Alright, my turn. I choose truth."

He was immensely proud of himself; he'd had the foresight to come up with a question beforehand. "Why have you got so many stuffed animals in your bedroom here?"

Clara flushed. "Oh. You saw them? What were you doing in my bedroom anyway?"

Naturally, the Doctor evaded the second question. "Yes, I saw them. They were in plain sight."

She crossed her legs, which were clad in black tights, and ruffled her green skirt. Evidently, she was embarrassed. "Just... something to remind me of home. I used to love soft toys when I was a kid. Still do. I can't sleep without them." A dull flush still colored her cheeks. "But that's a story for later. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he answered without hesitation.

Clara scowled at him, her thin eyebrows drawing together beneath her smooth bangs. "Oi! You said you'd choose dare!"

"I said nothing of the kind," he replied, drawing himself up with dignity and turning to face her, his velvety coattails flying behind him. "In fact, I said nothing at all. And if I _had_ , then just remember rule number one: the Doctor lies."

Sadly, Clara could find no flaw in his logic, even though she was particularly good at ripping apart logic and replacing it with illogical statements that were so illogical, they were almost logical. It was a cunning trick she'd learned from the Doctor. She sighed and racked her brains for a truth. "Okay, what's your most embarrassing memory? And don't give me any rubbish about being too old to remember everything; your memory is just fine and I know it," she added dangerously, a glint in her eye.

The Doctor tilted his head, mentally sending his consciousness back through two millennia's worth of memory until he chanced upon one that was so embarrassing he shuddered even thinking about it. "Well, there was one time where I almost destroyed the universe with a milk carton and a dirty diaper..." He proceeded to relate the story to Clara, who listened intently with amusement shining all over her face. (At this point, the author broke the fourth wall to mention that she may eventually write a fanfiction about this particular incident, if her readers want her to. Fortunately neither the Doctor nor Clara heard her.)

"Wow, that _is_ embarrassing," Clara commented when he had finished. "l'm almost sorry I asked."

The Doctor gingerly settled on the railing next to her, hunching his shoulders. "Well, forget I told you. Truth or dare?"

"...Dare," Clara replied, after a moment's hesitation.

The Doctor groaned. He wasn't particularly adept at thinking of dares. After a few minutes, unable to come up with anything else, he finally answered,"Erm, sing me a song."

She cheerfully launched into Phantom of the Opera, but the Doctor cut her off. "No, not that one. I know it's a duet, and you're trying to get me to sing with you. Well, it's not happening."

Glaring at him, annoyed that he had picked up on her clever plan, Clara started to sing Hungry Like the Wolf (she'd been _obsessed_ with that song as a kid, Lord knows why.)

Her last few notes trailed away a few minutes later. The Doctor made an exaggerated show of taking his fingers out of his ears. "Oh, is it over?" he inquired with mock relief. "Whew. Not sure I'd have lasted another few seconds."

She swatted his arm. "Oh, shut up. You're just jealous because I've got looks _and_ talent."

Actually, the Doctor wasn't jealous at all, although he'd readily admit that she had both looks and talent. The song had really been quite good. She had a low but powerful voice that sort of blended in with the air and made the ground feel like it was humming beneath you. He didn't know how else to describe it.

"I said, truth or dare?" Clara's impatient Blackpool accent floated obnoxiously into his thoughts, clearing them away.

He blinked. "What? Erm - dare."

Clara's lips curled in a smile. "Finally."

The Doctor realized that the wrong thing had slipped out of his mouth. "Wait. Wait, I meant truth," he pleaded in his thick Scottish burr. "Let me take it back."

She shook her head adamantly. "Nope."

He knew from experience that Clara wouldn't be swayed. "Get it over with then," he sighed loudly.

"Alright. Take me to the craziest planet you can think of right now."

He almost laughed out loud. His entire life consisted of going to crazy planets. She couldn't have given him an easier dare. Rubbing his hands together, he slid off the railing and strode over to the console. Clara followed him and placed her hand on top of his, smiling in eager anticipation. His eyes met hers, intense blue against fierce brown. "Planet of the pet shops, here we come!" he shouted. Together, they pulled the lever that set the TARDIS in motion. Clara shrieked with glee as the TARDIS's engines roared to life and the time machine tilted sideways.

They landed with a bang a few seconds later. The Doctor, expecting the jolt that usually preceded a safe landing, hooked his arms into the console and was therefore unaffected. Clara, however, was thrown backwards into the railing.

The Doctor finished 'parking' the TARDIS and gave it a loving pat. When he glanced up, he found that Clara was eagerly bouncing on the balls of her feet, her gaze darting between him and the door. "Can I go out?"

He scoffed. "What are you asking me for? Get out there and see where we are!"

Without further hesitation, she pulled the door open and peered outside. The Doctor flipped his sonic screwdriver in the air and then stuck it firmly in his pocket before following her.

Clara's eyes couldn't take in the surroundings fast enough. The TARDIS had landed in the middle of a bustling bazaar filled with jostling crowds and vivid stalls. Above them, the sky was a deep purple and sported neither a sun nor a moon, but oddly enough, it seemed to give off a dusky light of its own that illuminated the proceedings as brightly as sunshine would have. In addition to this, little floating candles hung in the air as if suspended on strings, contributing a rather mystical air. The buildings were dark and cramped, but the streets were spacious, and the first floor of every structure seemed to be occupied by a shop of sorts.

Something that the Doctor had said resonated in Clara's mind. "Planet of the pet shops, you said." She turned to face him. "Are all these stores pet shops? Is this _whole_ planet a giant pet shop?"

The look of incredulity on her face almost made the Doctor laugh out loud. "No, it's just _called_ that. The inhabitants of this planet just love animals, that's all. There are lots of pet shops here. But a whole planet of them? Now _that_ would be pudding-brained."

Clara giggled. And there it was again, the Doctor noticed. That shy, slightly mischievous smile; that alluring dent carved into her cheek. He hastily cleared his throat. "Right. Let's go explore."

Hand in hand, they strolled out of the TARDIS. The Doctor kept his mouth shut; he knew from previous experience that Clara liked to experience new places without listening to an annoying commentary from him.

There were animals everywhere. Clara recognized countless animals from Earth: birds, rabbits, fish, even platypuses. All types of creatures from Earth were represented here. One shop was even selling skeletal black horses with wings that she could have sworn were Thestrals. Animals crowded the stalls and shops, cawing, squeaking, chirping, barking and growling in an oddly euphonious cacophony. Occasionally she noticed an animal that looked unfamiliar, and categorized them as being from various other planets. The weirdest of these was a foot-long snake with five legs, a huge dorsal fin, and a frog's tongue that repeated in a nasal tone everything it heard passerby say.

Suddenly the oddest being she had ever seen (and she'd seen plenty of odd beings; she even traveled with one) walked by her. She stared after it, nonplussed. "Okay, _that_ was weird."

It suddenly struck her that everyone else looked equally strange. The planet's inhabitants were all humanoid, but they all bore certain aspects of animals. One alien, for example, had the head of a horse, the tail of a pig, and the hindquarters of a lion. Another looked like it was more fish than person. One even appeared to be part Judoon - in fact, Clara couldn't identify many of the animals that were represented. There was one alien with multicolored eyes that were bigger than dinner plates and a mane of thick, reddish fur that reached to its knees. Alien animals, she supposed. Although she and the Doctor were the only normal looking people in the fray, no one seemed to be casting them any odd glances.

She opened her mouth to ask a question, but the Doctor shot her a warning stare. "Shush. The people here love animals so much that they often choose to adopt the characteristics of some of them. You don't want to offend them by mentioning it - they get easily angered and I don't want to have to clean up any of your messes, because you're quite good at making people angry."

"What messes?" she snapped indignantly. "I never make messes."

He laughed incredulously. "Rubbish. I should know. I'm the one always cleaning them up!"

Clara's eyes flashed murderously. It probably would have escalated into a full-scale argument, but just then she noticed something that made her annoyance die out. "Oh my stars, that is the cutest thing I've ever seen," she declared in one breath, tearing free of the Doctor's grasp and rushing over to inspect an animal that was curled up in the window display of one of the shops. The translation matrix allowed her to see that the store's name was 'The Mammal, Insect, and Reptile House'. _What an original_ _name_ , her subconsciousness, always prepared with several witty and/or saucy comments, thought sarcastically. _Not_.

The creature resembled a cross between a fox, a wolf, and a bear. It had a layer of soft reddish fur that looked to be at least an inch thick. It had a pointed face and snout and curved ears like a bear's. The animal, which was only about a foot and a half long, was curled up in a ball with its bushy tail wrapped around it, evidently fast asleep.

"Juridian fox," the Doctor commented, peering at it over Clara's shoulder (which he was able to do with no difficulty at all, as her shoulder only came up to his chest). "They never get bigger than this size. They live in the forests of Juridia, but it's really easy to tame them, and they don't eat meat. Also, their eyes are multicolored. And supposedly they can run faster than cheetahs."

Clara tenderly pressed her hand to the window glass. "It's so tiny and adorable..."

 _Like you_ , the Doctor wanted to say. Instead he stepped forwards and opened the door to the shop. "Come on, let's go poke around in here."

With a final glance at the sleeping fox, Clara followed him inside. The store was dim but not gloomy, and soft purrs, chirps, and other animal noises resounded from every corner. Silver cages were everywhere: swinging from the ceiling, piled on the floor, perched precariously on counters. Their inhabitants varied from rats to lion cubs to iguanas.

As the Doctor and Clara entered, the animals ceased their chatter and simultaneously swung around to face them. A creature that resembled a bobcat prowling inside a cage on the floor let loose a short, deep growl. The Doctor stared at it with a look of surprise etched into the lines of his face. After a short pause he bent his head in greeting, which seemed to please the creature.

"What did it say?" Clara asked curiously.

The Doctor hesitated before answering. "He said,'Welcome, travelers, and walk amongst us freely.'"

"That was a lot for a tiny growl."

"That's not all." The Doctor furrowed his brow. "After that he said,'May you be forever free, Time Lord and Lady.'"

Silence reigned in the room as the import of his words struck her. "Time Lady... I'm not a Time Lady!"

The Doctor scrutinized the animal carefully. "You travel with me, Clara. You live in the TARDIS. To most creatures in the universe, you have the same standing as a Time Lady; the same power. You are a Time Lady in every sense of the word, except by blood."

Clara stared into his eyes, overwhelmed. The thoughts running through her head were too complicated for her to give voice to them, so she turned to another question instead. "And... they knew who we are _how_ , exactly?"

"Animals are smarter than humans, Clara. They know many things you don't." The Doctor was about to continue, but was instead forestalled by the arrival of the shopkeeper.

The most normal-looking being Clara had encountered on this planet so far scurried out of a small doorway that presumably led to a back room. He (or she; the creature bore no identifying marks) had a smooth, angular face, with a nose that was just a little too small for it, rather like a snake's. The person had a humanoid body with green-tinged skin, webbed hands, and large, slitted eyes. "Welcome, welcome," it cried, its deep voice indicating that it was male. "Please, look around as much as you like."

Clara was tempted to reply,"We _are_ , thanks," but decided to flash him a smile instead, albeit a slightly smirky one. "Very kind of you."

The shopkeeper retreated back into the other room, and the Doctor and Clara were left with the animals, who had not lost any of their interest in the visitors. Clara realized that most of the animals were from Earth. "How'd they all get here?" she asked.

"Someone put them in," the Doctor answered distractedly. "How else?"

Clara sighed. "No. I meant how did they get _here_. On this planet. Most of these animals are from Earth."

"Various breeding programs," he murmured, crossing his hands behind his back and beginning to pace the shop. "Animals from earth are brought here, bred, end then returned. Simple as that. Of course, they're treated very well, since the people here absolutely revere them. Even while kept in cages, they're probably given choice food, exercise privileges, and free wifi."

Clara mouthed the words 'free wifi' to herself before hurrying to join him. They walked in silence for a while, inspecting the various animals, until Clara noticed something so hilarious that she couldn't resist letting out a small giggle. She tapped the Doctor on the shoulder to get his attention. "Doctor, look at that lizard over there."

He glanced up. "What?"

She pointed at a cage. "That one."

He eyed it for a few seconds, then returned his gaze to his companion. "So?"

She grinned broadly. "It looks just like you. Look at it! The resemblance is creepy!"

The Doctor's mouth dropped open. "Clara Oswald, you did not just tell me I look like a lizard."

"I didn't. I said the lizard looked like you. Look!" She grabbed his cheeks and swung his face around in the direction of the lizard. "It's a little Doctor-lizard."

The resemblance was, indeed, uncanny. The lizard was a pale green, with soft orange scales dotted here and there (in that respect, fortunately, it did not resemble the Doctor). But its eyes were the exact same shade of blue and possessed the same intensity that the Doctor's did. They were overshadowed by craggy knobs that jutted out from the lizard's forehead, and which resembled the Doctor's bushy eyebrows. Also, the scales of its face protruded in what could almost be called a nose. It had the same structure as the Doctor's nose. Lastly, its mouth was downturned and completely unamused - just like the Doctor's.

He was annoyed, partially at Clara for making the comparison in the first place, but mostly at the lizard for actually looking like him. He had to admit he saw a strong resemblance to himself in the lines of the lizard's face.

But he would rather eat one of Clara's burned soufflés than tell her she was right, so he crossed his arms and haughtily looked away. "Rubbish." At the same time, he allowed his eyes to dart around the room, searching for a comparison that he could make in revenge. Finally, his eyes settled upon the perfect animal.

"Clara," he breathed, tapping her shoulder several times.

She looked up in annoyance. "What? Stop tapping me."

"Hypocrite. I only picked up that habit from you."

She eyed him dryly. "Sure. Okay. What is it?"

"Come and look at this," he called, walking over to the animal he had chosen.

She didn't bother to follow. "It's a bear. So?"

Time to deliver the punchline. "So, it bears an uncanny resemblance to _you_." His Scottish accent was sharp and pronounced.

She grinned, seeming to think it was a compliment. "Aww, thanks."

The Doctor regarded her in bewilderment. His plan was going awry. "No, no. It's a sun bear."

"Erm... safe difference," she replied, laughing. "Still a bear. Still cute. Actually, I suppose I _am_ sort of cute." She casually tossed her hair.

On cue, the bear opened its mouth and yawned widely. A foot-long tongue suddenly shot out of its mouth and dangled on its chest.

Clara shrieked and recoiled. "Oh my stars."

"Told you it was a sun bear," the Doctor smirked.

She tentatively stepped closer and realized that the bear was not as cute as it had first seemed. Its fur coat was thin and wrinkly, and its paws ended in giant, curled claws. Its eyes were tiny and peering.

And of course, there was the tongue.

Clara suddenly remembered that the Doctor had actually dared to compare this creature to her. "Doctor," she sang in a light voice.

He glanced at her, unaware of the danger he was in.

"When we get out of here, you and I are going to have a talk," she continued in the same tone.

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, _really_."

"Yes, because this beautiful face -" she pointed to herself -"will not tolerate those kinds of comments."

"Well, don't talk to me about it, talk to Bob."

She was momentarily taken aback. "Who?"

"The sun bear. His name is Bob. And he says your face is so wide you could probably stuff ten fish side by side in your mouth. I think that's a bigger insult, don't you?"

Clara stuck her tongue out at the bear. "Oi, watch it. Both of you," she added dangerously, including the Doctor in her warning.

He raised his hands in surrender and continued through the store. Clara trailed behind him, admiring the various animals. No more comparisons were made (except once, when Clara pointed out a stick insect and said that if it traded places with the Doctor she wouldn't be able to tell the difference).

Finally, just as they were about to leave, she noticed a small cage shoved into a corner. The animal inside it was mostly concealed by shadows. Curious, she strode over to the cage and crouched next to it.

A soft bark reached her ears, and a Labrador puppy bounded out of the shadows and leaped onto the bars of the cage. It had soft fur - the same color as Clara's hair - and twinkling blue eyes. Its tail wagged incessantly as it attempted to lick Clara's face.

"Awwww, you're so cute," she crooned, striking his nose.

The Doctor had to agree. He saw Clara in the puppy's eyes - their eyes shared the same joy and vitality. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he snarkily commented,"Oh look; you've got the same ginormous eyes."

Engrossed as Clara was in admiring the puppy, she didn't hear him. "What's his name?" she asked.

The puppy yapped cheerfully, and the Doctor translated. "He says he's waiting for someone to name him."

"Can I buy him?" Clara suddenly queried, struck by a sudden reckless impulse. "Please? Look at him; he's so cute. He's the cutest thing I've ever seen."

"I thought that was the fox outside."

She waved her hand airily. "Beautiful minds are fickle. So can I buy him?"

The Doctor gaped. "What? No, of course not. I won't have a puppy running around the TARDIS. I'll have to feed it, and clean its spillages, and play fetch with it. Not happening."

"Oh, come on; I'll take care of him,"she protested. "I could call him Doctor. Doctor Two. You know, like a second -"

"Yes, I get it," he interrupted wryly,"but even if I said yes, I haven't got anything to pay with."

Clara's shoulders slumped. "Drat." Sighing, she ruffled the puppy's ears one last time before getting to her feet. "Then I guess I'll go explore outside for a bit." She cast the Lab a longing glance before walking towards the door.

"Meet me in front of the store in fifteen minutes," the Doctor called. "And don't wander off. Or push any big red buttons."

"We'll see," she answered, grinning as she left the shop and closed the door behind her.

The Doctor watched her small frame recede into the distance and then spun around on his heels, one corner of his mouth curled in a small grin.

Rule number one: the Doctor lies.

"Shopkeeper dude," he called out, making use of the 'cool' Earth language Clara had tried to teach him. "I need you."

The snake-man poked his head out. "Yes?"

"How much does this puppy cost?"

"A thousand gold asters," he replied indifferently.

"That's insane!" he protested.

"Business is business."

The Doctor desperately attempted to change tactics. "Don't I get a discount? I've saved this planet twice!"

"Sorry, no discounts apply." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest.

The Doctor growled under his breath. He didn't _have_ that much money. "Would you accept this for the puppy instead?" He held up his golden pocket watch, allowing it to shine alluringly as it slowly revolved in the air. He was reluctant to part with the watch; it had been a gift from someone he'd loved dearly... someone he could no longer see.

But he would part with it if he knew it would make his Clara happy.

The shopkeeper's eyes almost popped out of his head (literally. It wasn't a pretty picture). "A Gallifreyan watch," he breathed reverently. "Yes, yes, of course. I will accept this."

The Doctor tossed him the watch. "I want the puppy shipped to Earth by premium transportation. How long will it take?"

"Approximately 355 Earth days."

So the puppy would get to Earth on Christmas Day. He imagined how Clara would react when she opened his present and found the puppy inside, and felt a warm wave of delight roll through him. "And how much does shipping cost?" he asked, in an almost cheerful tone.

"Well, it costs 10,000 asters to ship to such a distance...

His grin faded instantly. "What?"

Seeing the look of thunder on the Doctor's face, the storekeeper hastily added,"But the price is included in the watch you gave me! So don't worry!" He nervously procured an address form, and the Doctor scrawled Clara's address on it in untidy, spidery handwriting.

The shopkeeper bowed deeply and scuttled away. "Thank you for your business."

Lost in thought, the Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and exited the store. An image flashed in his mind of Clara's delighted smile, and his eyes softened as his thoughts turned to his petite companion.

Speaking of Clara, where was she? Where'd she got to? That girl was so tiny that some of the larger people here (namely the ones who had some of the features of elephants) might accidentally step on her.

The probability of that happening was tiny, but he couldn't stop himself worrying. He was immensely relieved when he caught sight of her small figure grinning and waving at him.

"You were sixteen minutes and eight point two seconds," he told her brusquely. "Late again, Clara Oswald." He knew she was still brooding about the puppy, although she would never admit it, so he tried to do his best to distract her.

She nudged him with her elbow. "Oh, shut up."

They ambled back to the TARDIS, surrounded by vendors attempting to pawn off various animals on them. The Doctor shoved his way through the crowd, making a path for Clara, and patted the TARDIS as he approached it. "Hey, Old Girl," he murmured.

Clara did not deign to greet the TARDIS kindly (she was still annoyed at the trick it had played on her yesterday. She'd had to sleep on the floor all night because the TARDIS kept changing the molecular structure of her bed... namely, turning solid molecules to air molecules. In other words, creating a great big bloody hole right in the middle of the bed, so that Clara kept falling through it just as she was drifting off to sleep).

The Doctor opened the door and stepped inside his time machine, which greeted him with a gentle him. Clara stepped through after him, casting a final glance at the world outside. Her dark hair was curled around her shoulders, ruffled by the mild wind outside. "So I've been wondering something, Doctor," she announced, hopping onto the railing again. "Even though we were totally the only normal people on that planet, no one looked at us weird. How come?"

"Ah, yes. I have a theory about that." The Doctor tapped a button on the console, and a panel on the far wall shimmered and vanished, revealing a rectangular mirror. "Go look at yourself."

Never one to pass up an opportunity to admire herself, Clara did as he asked, beaming. But when she finally approached the mirror, she could do little more than gasp and stare dumbly at her reflection.

The Doctor stood at her shoulder. "Yes, I thought so," he declared with some satisfaction. "The TARDIS gave us mirror disguises. You can only see... well, _you_ , in a mirror. We look like us to ourselves, but everyone else sees... that." He pointed at his reflection.

Clara stared at herself in horror. She had the head of a giant rat, complete with yellow, crooked teeth, and the limbs of a donkey. The Doctor had the snout of a dolphin, grayish skin, and a fox's tail. "That's something I read about in the manual," he continued in surprise. "I didn't know the TARDIS could actually do it. Mind you, this might've been useful in plenty of certain other situations," he added reproachfully. "In fact, the disguises could have been useful in any other situation but this one."

"Just you watch, she'll never do it again," Clara hissed acidly, her voice full of wrath. "She's given us disguises when we really didn't need them, and now she won't do it again when we do need them. Bloody snogbox," she murmured again.

"I think she probably will do it again, but just to you, to spite you," the Doctor told her unhelpfully. "You know, the funny thing is that Mirror disguises are supposed to reflect the wearer's personality. So..." His voice trailed away. "Oh."

Clara stared at her rat head and donkey limbs again. "I hate you!" she shouted to the TARDIS, shaking her fist at it. Then, turning to the Doctor, she demanded, "Well, take it off! Bring me back!"

The Doctor cringed. "Erm... I don't know how... I threw the manual in a supernova before I could finish reading about Mirror illusions." Catching sight of Clara's murderous glare, he feebly protested,"I got bored! It was boring!"

She clapped a hand to her eyes. "You are so hopeless."

Neglecting to answer (he knew she was more angry at the TARDIS than at him) the Doctor smoothed out his coat and crossed over to the console. "Come on, let's go for chips or something. I'm sure the illusion will wear off... eventually."

"I have a better idea." Clara smiled. "Ice cream at my place. I've got four cartons."

"Sounds like a deal, Miss Oswald." The Doctor winked at her and began flying around the console, pulling levers and slamming buttons as his coattails whirled behind him. As the TARDIS shimmered into nothingness and entered the vortexes that crisscrossed through time and space, Clara wrapped her arms around the Doctor from behind and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

He didn't say a word, but she knew that they were both thinking the same thing.

 **So just some notes about the chapter, if you're interested:**

 **Well, firstly, sorry to those of you who like sun bears. They just creep me out.**

 **Secondly: You may have noticed that Clara talked a bit differently in this chapter. That was the new 'thing' I tried. I wanted to explore the childish side of her personality in this chapter. Not sure if I succeeded... let me know.**

 **Thirdly: I've always been interested in the companions' importance. Like, how does everyone else see the Doctor's companions? How does everyone else treat them? Do they have a rank or a standing? I've always had a theory that the companions are just treated like Time Lords themselves, since they basically are. Hence Clara being referred to as a Time Lady** :3

 **Again, prompts and reviews are appreciated. Thanks so much for reading.**

 **Also, I have an idea! I think if I can get 50 + reviews by the end of April, I will give you guys a special Whoufflé story I've been planning for a while (it'll still be part of this story though. I've worked it all out)! What do you think? Do you guys like Whoufflé? Would you rather have a special Whouffaldi story? What do you want to see for 50 + reviews? I want to hear your opinion! Let me know in the comments what you think.**


	18. Chapter 18: I Love You

**Well, the title of this chapter says it all:D**

 **You guys are in for a treat. I think. I sort of like how this turned out. But it's also sad. AND I'M SORRY, I HAD TO DO IT, I HAD TO REFERENCE IT... you'll see what I'm talking about when you read this.**

 **To Guest (Whovianeverlark17): of course I used your prompt! It was a great prompt and very fun to write. I'm glad you liked it.**

 **Read on and enjoy. Reviews are appreciated; I like to know what you thought. This was a very interesting prompt, and I made it as fluffy as possible:D**

 **Prompt from RosaBlythe: "GIGGLING FISH"**

At first, Clara thought she was dreaming. The scene before her eyes was just too fantastic to be real.

But then she remembered that her best friend was the Doctor. She could travel the entire universe with him. Anything could happen.

She remembered what had happened earlier. There had been a portal of sorts. And of course, the Doctor, being the Doctor, had stepped through it, taking her hand in his, pressing it, smiling at her with his eyes instead of his mouth. She'd had to follow.

And now they were here. But where _was_ here?

Clara slowly turned her head, taking in her surroundings. Her movements were sluggish, restricted by something thick and fluid.

Water. Yes, she was in the middle of the ocean. Her brain seemed to be moving slower than usual as well. It took her several seconds to realize that she was breathing normally, and that her clothes were dry.

The surface of the water was far above her head, rippling with patches of sunlight. Vibrant corals and multicolored streams of kelp stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see, undulating with barely visible movements. Clara suddenly felt something pressing down on her, a heavy, odd sort of feeling, as though she knew something was there but she couldn't figure out what it was.

Understanding finally dawned on her. She was feeling the presence of life.

As soon as Clara had realized this, she became aware of small, darting flashes of moment. Her heart thrilled as she realized that they belonged to fish.

The fish were everywhere. They swarmed through the kelp, hid behind the corals, darted through the water like a pulsing rainbow of rippling scales. TARDIS blue, soft pink, verdant green; every hue was represented here. Clara's world was an explosion of color, and she could have cried with joy from the beauty of it all.

A soft noise reached her eyes, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was the fish; they were laughing and giggling as they chased each other in circles. The sound was light and musical and burbling, like flutes and brooks and rain all at once. Clara, who found herself, for some reason, completely unperturbed by the sound of giggling fish, realized that the beauty of the noise had brought tears to her eyes.

Suddenly a warm hand reached out and brushed the tears from her eyes, lingering on her eyelashes and caressing her cheek. "Don't cry," a familiar Scottish voice murmured. "Why are you crying, Clara?"

So he'd somehow figured out a clever way to speak underwater as well as breathe.

Clara looked through the halo of rich brown hair that surrounded her head, waving as the currents pushed it back and forth, and saw just who she expected to see. The Doctor.

It took her a few seconds to find her voice, and when she did, it was soft and husky. "Because... it's just so beautiful," she managed to say, reaching up and slipping her fingers into the Doctor's.

His waistcoat bobbed in the current as he silently stared at her. Feeling suddenly emboldened, Clara stared deep into the Doctor's eyes. "Can I tell you something?" Three words were running endlessly through her mind, etching themselves into her consciousness. She had never before been able to work up the courage to say them, but now she felt safe, and calm, and at peace. Her worries had drifted away upon an ocean of serenity.

"I'm listening, Clara Oswald. I'm always listening."

Something about his tone of voice made her feel as though he already knew what she was going to say, but the words tumbled out of her mouth anyway. "Doctor," she breathed, savoring the syllables. "Doctor... I love you."

The Doctor smiled at her, a soft, slow smile. He opened his mouth to respond...

... and then the scene changed.

Clara knew now that she was dreaming. She had suspected it before, when she had told the Doctor those words she could never actually bring herself to say in real life, but now she never knew for sure.

The world was black and lifeless. Clara was standing on nothing; surrounded by nothing. The Doctor had vanished. She was alone.

But when she glanced down, there was someone lying facedown at her feet. Clara crouched down, assuming the person was asleep. "Hello?" She shook the person's shoulder. "Hello, can you tell me where I am?"

No response was forthcoming. Growing annoyed, she rolled the person over.

It was Danny, and his cold face and still body were matted with blood.

Clara gave an involuntary cry of shock and stumbled backwards. Tears welled in her eyes. "Danny? Danny, wake up!" Blinded by a veil of tears, she shook his prone form, but her efforts were to no avail.

 _A dream_ , the still rational part of her consciousness hissed. _Wake up, Clara. You're dreaming, stupid. Wake up._

And she tried, she really did, but she couldn't tear herself out of her nightmare. Clara began to grow desperate. _Wake up_! she screamed at herself. _Wake up!_

Two more bodies appeared, and she didn't need to turn them over to identify them. The first one was the Doctor, his hand outstretched, as though he had died holding someone's hand. There was a piece of blood-splotched paper lying next to him. Even from a distance, Clara could tell that it said, in his distinctive, spidery scrawl, YOUR FAULT, CLARA.

"No," she wept. "No..." She turned around, seeking some form of escape, but she instead came upon the still figure of the third person, clad in a plaid skirt and black stockings. Brown hair tumbled down her shoulders.

A shiver ran up Clara's spine. It was her.

"Oh, yes," a malicious voice whispered in her ear, her own voice, twisted by hatred. "Clara Oswald. Trusting Clara. _Innocent_ Clara. You thought you were so special. The Doctor said he would save you. He said that to everyone else that he sacrificed, and now, it's your turn. You threw away your life, thinking he would find a way to save you... and look at yourself now..."

The malicious voice faded, and a new sound reached Clara's ears. It was a scream, a scream of agony. But there was no one else here...

Then she realized that _she_ was screaming. She screamed and screamed until her throat was raw, as lances of agony stabbed her entire body, until she could scream no more. And then a torrent of black smoke poured from her mouth, and she felt her soul and identity slipping away, and her last thought as she fell to the ground like a wilting flower was,"Doctor..."

"Clara! Clara! Wake up!" Rough hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her, jolting her into wakefulness. Clara gasped and shot out of bed, her eyes wild and her hair tousled. Dried tear tracks shone on her cheeks.

"Doctor, Danny, I'm sorry," she cried, fresh tears leaking from her eyes. "I'm... wait, what?" A cool breeze wafted into her face from her open bedroom window, and she realized that she was blessedly awake.

"You screamed," a low voice told her. "You were screaming in your sleep, so I woke you up."

Clara stared at the Doctor, looking both at him and through him, remembering how horrible his dead body had looked. "I'm fine," she announced, forcing a playful smile. "What are you doing here, eh?"

"Watching you. I... watch you in your sleep sometimes," the Doctor added awkwardly, a dull flush tinging his cheeks. "Just, you know, to make sure everything's okay. Only on some nights though."

Despite herself, Clara's lips twitched in a smile, a real one this time. She was slightly freaked out, but mostly touched. That was just the sort of shy, sweet thing the Doctor would do. "Only some nights?"

He knew then that there could be no more lying to his Clara Oswald. She knew him too well. "Maybe every night," he admitted reluctantly. He searched her face for another smile, but it didn't return. His companion's eyes were fractured and haunted. "What happened?" he asked softly. Some people might laugh at nightmares, but not the Doctor. He knew only too well the potency of dreams.

She sighed shakily as the events of the dream forced their way back into her memory, and leaned wearily against her pillow. She knew then that there could be no more lying to her Doctor. He knew her too well. "I died," she murmured softly, her voice fractured with pain. "Because I traveled with you. Black smoke came out of my mouth and I just fell over and died. And before that, I saw bodies... Danny's, mine... yours..." Her voice trailed away.

The Doctor steeled himself, leaned forward, and placed a tentative hand on Clara's shoulder. Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek, leaning onto the Doctor's chest. A single tear leaked out of her eye, rolled down her pale cheek, and dropped onto his velvety coat.

A stab of sorrow buried itself in the Doctor's hearts. He could stand and watch as empires crumbled around him; he could look on as his enemies perished; he could brave the mental and physical turmoil of his own regenerations. But this, _this_ , was the one thing he could not bear to see. He could not stand the sight of his companions, particularly Clara Oswald, in tears.

The Doctor made a split-second decision. He had been sitting on the chair that he'd dragged to Clara's bedside, but now he perched on the edge of her bed and slid his arm around her petite frame, pulling her closer.

Clara listened to the familiar, soothing beat of his hearts, finding that the steady sound calmed and comforted her. But there was still one worry that she could not get rid of. She shifted her head so that she was staring into the Doctor's eyes, searching them for answers. "Doctor, is traveling with you going to kill me?" They had reached the point in their relationship where she could ask him questions like that and receive honest answers.

The Doctor pursed his lips and bowed his head. He'd heard a story once, hundreds of years ago, about a TARDIS that could predict the future by sending its inhabitants dreams and warnings. He'd thought it was just a silly rumor, but... maybe, just maybe... his TARDIS, his own, beautiful TARDIS... could do that too?

But that would mean that Clara _could_ die. The Doctor's hearts clenched. No, no, that could never happen. It was a dream, that was all. Nothing more. He would fight to protect Clara Oswald until his dying breath; he had a duty of care.

And so he told her what he knew she wanted to hear, and what he needed to hear. "Clara Oswald," he announced, looking deep into her wise brown eyes, "I will never let you die as long as we are together."

Clara knew that he meant every word. Smiling, she raised her hand and traced it along his jawline, cupping his cheek. The Doctor placed his hand over hers and held it there, admiring the hugeness of his hand versus the smallness of hers, and the play of the moonlight on her pale skin.

After a few minutes, he pulled away. "It's 2:37," he announced. "Time for you to get back to bed."

Clara laughed, tucking in a fold of her blue nightgown. "How do you always know what time it is?"

"I'm a Time Lord. Obviously."

Clara pushed her pillow down and lay back on it, pulling the sheets up to her chest. "Stay with me," she murmured simply. Despite her light tone of voice, the Doctor knew that it was a plea, not a command. "Please."

He nodded once and placed his hand on the bed. She stared at it for a few seconds and then slid her arm out of the covers and grasped his hand in her own.

Eventually Clara's eyes shut and her breathing slowed, and the Doctor knew that she had drifted to sleep. Just to be sure - he didn't want to do what he was about to unless she really was asleep - he fished his sonic screwdriver out of his coat pocket and scanned her prone form. Her peaceful smile never wavered as the buzz of the sonic sliced through the air.

Yes - Clara really was asleep. The Doctor stowed his screwdriver in his pocket and contemplated his companion's sleeping form. Then, with his other hand, he reached out and tenderly began to stroke her hair, running his fingers through her smooth brown locks. This was something he only felt comfortable doing when there was no one around to catch him in the act. He normally wouldn't show such affection to anyone, but he knew that Clara needed it. Clara was different. Clara needed affection more than anyone else he'd traveled with had.

Clara shifted slightly in her sleep and inadvertently rolled over to face him. The Doctor sighed gently as he placed his palm on her cheek, a peaceful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

An idea struck him. Withdrawing his hand, he grasped the handle of his screwdriver once more and changed the setting to Dream.

This was a setting he had never considered using before. It allowed the screwdriver to pick up the brainwaves of people while they slept and read their thoughts and emotions in their dreams. And it could transmit those signals directly into the mind of the user, effectively allowing whoever was using the screwdriver to experience other people's dreams inside his own mind.

A sharp buzz sounded as the Doctor scanned Clara again. Within seconds, it had picked up on the signals that her brain was emitting as it created her dreams.

The Doctor listened to her dream for a few minutes, and a sad sort of smile creased his lined face. He bent and placed a gentle kiss on Clara's smooth forehead. "I love you too," he murmured in a halting voice.

Then he got up and exited the bedroom. The TARDIS was waiting in the living room, its stark radiance sharply contrasting with the rest of the dimmed flat. Casting a final glance at Clara, the Doctor stepped inside his time machine and shut the door.

He leaned against the console, staring at nothing, his eyes unfocused and far away. And he could not bring himself to move for a very, very long time.

Meanwhile, a breeze stirred Clara's face and she cracked an eyelid open. She frowned and sat up. The Doctor had been here... where had he gone? And he had said...

An incredulous smile touched her face. Had she been dreaming, or had that really happened? She settled back against her pillow and was asleep a few minutes later, the Doctor's murmured words whispering themselves over and over again in her mind...

 **I'M SO SORRY FOR THE FACE THE RAVEN REFERENCE... I HAD TO. IT MADE ME CRY TOO. I just really wanted to explore the idea that Clara might have nightmares after traveling with the Doctor. But it was cruel of me to make her dream about something that actually happens to her later... poor Doctor, he didn't know he wouldn't be able to protect her forever... /goes away and cries/ Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed the fluffiness that ensued!**

 **Now, I have no more prompts left to write, so unless someone gives me one I have decided to use these four prompts given to me by someone not on this site. The prompts are Bananas, Glass, Procrastination, and Erasers. Please let me know in the comments which of these sounds most interesting so I know which one to write first (or give me a prompt of your own, because those take first priority). Also, I would love your opinion on what kind of special story I should write as a thank-you for 50 reviews. What appeals to you most?**

 **As always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. See you next time. Allons-y!**


	19. Chapter 19: Tell Me a Story

**One word: procrastination.**

 **Nornally I do one chapter a week, on either one of my stories. Today (two days before a major test) I've given you all TWO chapters.**

 **Definitely procrastination.**

 **I'd better get going now... I've got studying to do. I hope you enjoy the chapter, please review and/or leave prompts!**

 **To my guest reviewer: Fear not... more is on the way! Always:D**

 **To Hamster the Angel: Thank you for your sweet comment! I'm looking forward to writing your prompt!**

PROMPT FROM GUEST: TICKLISH TREES (you said bonus for extra fluff... so here you go! A whole serving of fluffiness so fluffy it makes marshmallow creme feel sad.)

Clara hummed lightly under her breath as she entered the TARDIS, cradling two extra-tall mochas in her hands. She was in a good mood today: it was Friday, all of her English students had performed miraculously well, and she didn't have any homework to correct over the weekend.

"Ah, Clara, there you are," the Doctor called in a jovial tone of voice.

Clara grinned; the Doctor was evidently in a good mood as well. Thank goodness. He was unbearable when he was grumpy. Of course, she loved him just the same, but he was admittedly much easier to talk to when he wasn't frowning at everything you said.

"Brought you coffee," she replied, closing the TARDIS door with her foot in a practiced motion.

His head popped up from behind the console. "...Okay."

No word of thanks, but then again, she hadn't really expected one.

The Doctor crossed over to Clara, took one of the mochas, and popped it into a special cup holder built into the console. Then he turned around and frowned at his petite companion. "Did you shrink?"

"Excuse me?"

"You look shorter. You've shrunk."

"I have not shrunk," Clara snapped, drawing herself up to her full, extremely imposing, height of five feet and two inches with as much dignity as possibly. "I'm just not wearing high heels, that's all."

The Doctor glanced at her feet. "High heels? Oh, you mean the little stilts. Yes, I see."

He made as if to turn around, but Clara grabbed his arm. "Hang on. What happened to your hair?"

The Doctor's curly gray locks were sticking straight up, as though he had been licked by a cow. He shrugged nonchalantly. "I was fixing the engine earlier and got some grease in my hair. No biggie. I washed it out, it just dried funny."

" _That_ is an understatement," Clara muttered. He tried to turn around again and she squeezed his arm even tighter. "No, stop. I have to fix that." She was not going to allow his unruliness to spoil her perfect day, so she drained the last sips of her mocha - with some regret - set her coffee cup on the floor, and got to work.

Groaning and protesting, the Doctor was forced to stand still while Clara stood on her tiptoes and ran her fingers through his hair, her lips pursed in concentration. He squirmed and wiggled in an effort to free his lanky frame from her grasp, but she refused to let him go. Finally Clara fixed his hair to her satisfaction and stepped back, wearing a pleased smile. "That's better."

"One word," the Doctor breathed, spinning away and running to the far side of the console in case Clara tried to attack him again. "OCD."

"That's three words," she corrected him. "Obsessive Compulsive -"

"Oh, stop being such an English teacher," he sighed dramatically. "Can we go now?"

A roguish grin tugged at the corners of Clara's lips. "What are we waiting for?"

"Well, last I checked, we were waiting for you, but -" he caught sight of the steely glint in her eye and reconsidered finishing that sentence. "Okay, let's just go."

Their flight through time and space was smoother than usual, and Clara was pleased when the immaculateness of her appearance wasn't ruined by the jolts and bumps of the TARDIS. The Doctor landed the TARDIS with a pleased exclamation and beamed as the noise of the engines faded to a gentle hum. "Well, here we are," he began. "Let's -" His gaze suddenly settled on his untouched cup of coffee. Cautiously, he picked it up and took a sip. Then, deciding he liked it, he took several more sips with relish. "I like this stuff," he commented, smacking his lips as the flavor of the coffee zinged on his tongue. "What is it?"

Clara sighed huffily and buried her face in her palms. "You've had it before, Doctor," she reminded him, attempting to be patient. "Like, a lot. It's a mocha."

"Mocha..." He repeated the word a few more times. "Hmm. Stupid name. Doesn't really look like a mocha, does it? I'd call it... chocolate coffee. That makes more sense."

"Besides the point," Clara cut in, feeling that a conversation about coffee could go on for hours and deciding to end it before it could begin. "Let's go explore... wherever we are." She cleared her throat expectantly, waiting for the Doctor to take the hint.

He did, but only after several seconds. "Oh, yes. Fine. Let's go."

As they stepped out of the TARDIS, Clara's breath hitched and she couldn't stop herself from gasping. They were standing in the middle of a forest of thin, wispy trees that stretched as far as the eyes could see. Although there was no wind, the pale green trails of leaves that hung from the branches of the trees were whispering and rustling. The tree bark glittered with flecks of crystal in every hue. The sounds of Clara's footsteps and the leaves rubbing against each other were muted, as though the forest had just experienced a snowfall. She glanced up and beheld a pale blue sky streaked with orange clouds.

She was overwhelmed by the serenity and beauty of the silent forest, so much so that she didn't notice the Doctor crouch until he was standing with his chin almost on her shoulder. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured softly.

Clara jumped and turned around. "Oh my stars. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

She regarded him amusedly for a few seconds and then shook her head. "Never mind."

The Doctor closed the TARDIS door and paced a few yards away, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared up at the towering trees. "So where are we?" Clara asked, trailing behind him.

"The Forest of Skralor," he answered, his Scottish brogue even more pronounced than usual as he enunciated the r's. "Skralor is a planet in the Andromeda Galaxy. It's a prominent tourist destination because of its natural beauty... like this forest. In fact, this forest is famous throughout the universe."

"And... why would that be?" Clara inquired cautiously, feeling that the Doctor probably wanted her to ask that question. She could always tell when he wanted to her to ask questions, because he adopted a peculiar, expectant sort of look and leaned forward on the balls of his feet just a little. He liked to be able to impress people by always knowing the answers.

Sure enough, the Doctor's lips twitched in a satisfied smile. "This forest is an immensely odd phenomenon which occurs nowhere else in the universe."

"Can you please just tell me why already?" Clara snapped impatiently.

There was a strange glint in the Doctor's eyes. "The _trees_ , Clara," he breathed, his voice seeming unnaturally loud because the other noises in the forest were unnaturally soft. "Touch one and see."

She cast an uncertain glance at the tree to her left. "You want me to... touch the tree," she repeated.

He made an impatient tsking sound and gestured to the tree. "Just do it."

Clara decided to blindly trust him (usually when that happened, she ended up almost dying or nearly destroying the universe, but she found, annoyingly, that she was never able to _stop_ herself from trusting him). She reached out a hand and brushed her fingers along the bark, admiring the glittering crystals set into the tree's rough skin.

A mellifluous and very human laugh suddenly rang out, emanating from... the tree that she had just touched. Clara shrieked and snatched her hand back.

The Doctor winced and clutched his head. "Don't shriek like that. Even _banshees_ can't shriek as loudly as that."

Clara was still staring at the tree. "What was that? It just laughed. The tree just laughed." She whirled around to face him.

"Yes, I know. This forest is called the Laughing Forest. The trees laugh when you touch them."

Her mouth hung open as she struggled to process that information. "But... why? How?"

The Doctor shrugged. "No one knows. It's one of the universe's greatest mysteries. Some think it's because of the crystals set into the bark. Others think the trees used to be people."

"What do you think?"

He stared at his companion's soft brown eyes and lowered his head. "I think... the universe is a strange place, and no one will ever know everything about it. Best to let some things remain undiscovered."

Clara nodded and then frowned. "Hang on. You knew it was going to laugh, and you didn't tell me? I almost had a heart attack when I heard it laugh!"

"Well, you _didn't_ have a heart attack, and that's what counts," he replied cheerfully.

Clara scowled darkly. "Sometimes I think you forget that humans only have one heart."

"How could I forget? It's your biggest weakness! There's no way I could possibly forget. The idea of only having one heart is so stupid and pudding-brained it's seared into my brain for the rest of eternity."

"Seared into your twenty-seven brains," Clara smirked, referencing what the Doctor had said to her the first time she'd met him. The dimple in her cheek deepened as she grinned.

They stood together for a time, silently admiring the forest (and occasionally, each other, though they never would've admitted it). "Ticklish trees," Clara finally commented, looking up at the Doctor. "Who'd have thought?"

He made no response, but she knew he'd heard.

Eventually the Doctor cleared his throat and turned to Clara, his lined forehead creasing. "Sun's starting to set," he announced shortly. "Days here are only five Earth-hours long."

"So, are we leaving now?" Her eyes searched his lined face for a response.

The Doctor smiled a tiny smile. "Not yet. I've got an idea."

 _Two hours later_ :

The stars twinkled overhead, winking and shimmering, lonely gods in their own right. The night sky was like a pool of ink interspersed with white clouds of light. The oppressive silence that had been present earlier had lessened into a serene, welcoming one.

Somehow, Clara's heart was too full of love and wonder for her to even say a word.

Smiling, she closed her eyes and leaned into the Doctor's arm. "This was the best idea ever," she murmured into his shoulder.

He had to admit it was one of his better ones. He had brought a tartan picnic blanket from inside the TARDIS and set it up outside, and now he and Clara were stargazing. But he had one last trick up his sleeve.

The Doctor slid a hand inside his coat pocket and produced a tiny metal flask (For once, to his immense pleasure, he was actually able to _reach_ the item he wanted without having to fumble around inside his pockets for ages). "Would you like some hot chocolate?" he asked his petite companion.

Clara propped herself up on her elbow and stared dubiously at the petite flask. "Um, there's about enough in there for an ant."

He clicked his tongue. "Clara, Clara, Clara. It's bigger on the inside, obviously."

She flicked his arm. "Oh, shut up. Yes, I'd like some."

He grinned - he'd already known that would be her answer - and took out two small mugs from his other pocket. "D'you want me to pour?" Clara asked.

The Doctor eyed her irritably. "No. I'm two thousand years old. I can pour hot chocolate without spilling, Mother."

Clara's cheeks dimpled as she laughed. "Getting sarcastic, are we?"

The Doctor made no response to that as he poured the steaming brown liquid into the mugs and handed one of them to Clara. She cradled it in her small hands, sniffing its rich aroma, and took a cautious sip. "It's good," she conceded in a surprised tone of voice. "Did you make this?"

"No. It's TARDIS-generated." A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the incredulous expression on Clara's face.

"What _can't_ the snogbox do?" Clara demanded.

"Well, she can't _snog_ anyone. Which is why 'snogbox' is a stupid name." He glanced over at Clara, expecting some sort of snide comment in response, and frowned (partly because no snide comment was forthcoming, and partly because she had hot chocolate all over her lips). "You know you have a giant hot chocolate mustache, right?"

She shrugged. "So?"

"So - it's-" He stuttered, unable to think of a reason why it should be a problem. "Fine, never mind."

Clara downed the rest of her hot chocolate and leaned against his shoulder again, snuggling into the crook of his elbow. Her body heat was like having a campfire right next to him. "Doctor, where's the earth?"

He stared into her wise brown eyes. The starlight was reflected in them, making them shine brighter than diamonds. The Doctor almost got lost in them, but managed to drag himself out with an effort. "Right, yes, Earth. It's..." He scanned the sky. "It's over there."

"Where?"

The Doctor took Clara's hand in his own and pointed her finger at a clump of particularly bright stars. "Right there."

She studied the patch of sky. "It's so far away," she breathed dreamily, an admiring yet wistful look stealing across her face. "They don't even know this planet exists."

They sat in silence for a while after that. The Doctor found that he was both embarrassed and delighted by his close contact with Clara. He wasn't sure if he should scoot closer or farther away, and finally opted for the latter choice, deciding that he should at least _pretend_ to be annoyed by her closeness.

Clara didn't seem to be bothered. Instead, she shifted so that she was lying down on the picnic blanket. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders in rich mahogany waves as she crossed her arms under her head and stared up at the stars. "Do you know the names of them?" she asked suddenly.

The Doctor frowned. "Of what?"

"The stars. Do you know all their names?"

He slid his gaze across the inky sky. "Yes, Clara," he answered quietly. "Every one. And I can hear them too."

That was an unexpected comment. Clara sat up a little. "What do you mean?"

"They're singing," he murmured, so softly that she barely heard him. "The stars are singing. They're always singing. But their song is stronger at nighttime."

"Can I hear it?" Clara whispered.

Wordlessly, he reached out and touched a pale hand to her forehead. Clara gasped as the songs of the stars flooded her ears. They were soft and sweet, happy and wistful all at once. They sounded like beams of light and shattered glass; like rolling waves and the purest notes of music. There was simply no other way to describe them.

The Doctor took his hand away, and the noise died away. A single tear slid down Clara's cheek, coaxed from her eye by the beauty of the songs. "They're beautiful," she announced simply. "And you can hear that... all the time? What are they singing about?"

The Doctor heaved a sigh as he tilted his head back. "Many things. Living and dying, everything and nothing... they even sing about me sometimes. I'm simply that cool."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Also very modest."

"Always."

In a rush of affection, she rested her head against his chest, listening to the comforting pounding of his double hearts. Her hand curled around his jacket. "Tell me a story," she requested, her voice slightly muffled by the fabric of his waistcoat. "Tell me a story about the stars." There was a heap of TARDIS-blue blankets on the grass next to them, and she pulled one over herself and the Doctor so that only their heads and arms were sticking out.

Glancing down at his companion, whose eyes were peacefully closed, the Doctor suppressed a sigh. There were so many stories to tell, and not all of them had happy endings. His memory flashed back through centuries' worth of memories, searching for the right tale to tell Clara.

And then, as he stared through half-closed eyes at the starlight gleaming on Clara's hair, and listened to the steady hum of her breathing, a memory popped into his head, and he instantly knew that it was the right one.

"I was young when it happened," he murmured softly as if in a trance, his rough but mellifluous Scottish brogue starkly contrasting the otherwise silent night. "Just five hundred years old..."

And so he began his story. His voice rose and fell like a wave of smooth words as he recounted his adventure, weaving a tale of hope, of excitement, of curiosity, of friendship, and most of all, of the constant pull of the stars as they sang, drawing him to them like Clara drew him to herself.

As he spoke, Clara listened intently, never speaking but growing more and more content and at peace as the story wore on.

Finally, the Doctor's last words fell from his lips. "...So now you know why it's best to never let me explore places on my own, eh, Clara?" He paused. "Clara?"

She was fast asleep, curled up against his chest with a tiny smile on her elfin face.

The Doctor felt a momentary flash of annoyance - his voice was sore from talking so much, and she hadn't even listened! - but it quickly gave in to a rush of affection. He wearily massaged his forehead and leaned backwards so that he was lying on his back. "Oh, Clara..." he murmured, caressing her hair with a gentle hand.

"I felt that," she mumbled in her sleep.

The Doctor chuckled amazedly. Even in her sleep, she never stopped trying to embarrass him.

He crossed his arms on top of his chest and stared up at the twinkling stars, his eyes sinking lower... and lower... and lower...

And as the night faded into a warm curtain of dawn, the two friends slept together peacefully, content in the knowledge that they were together, and nothing could part them.

 **Wow. That was so fluffy I almost cried tears of joy just writing it. Well, not really. But I almost died of cuteness. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it. Please review if you want, it will be a great reward for me when I'm done testing. Have a great week. See you all next time**!


	20. Chapter 20: The Doctor Lies

**Wow, I'm proud of myself. I wrote this whole thing in about half an hour. I have no idea how I did it.**

 **On a side note, I've had more than one request for a fluffy sickfic, so that will be the next chapter! It may take a while to write, since I want to make it as good as possible. Just letting you know.**

 **Thank you for reading. Reviews/constructive criticism appreciated.**

PROMPT FROM HAMSTER THE ANGEL: DANCE (thanks so much for giving me the opportunity to write this, it was great fun. Probably not historically accurate though. I have no idea what New York was like in 1926, I just wanted to write about it since I used to live near there.)

"How do I look?"

"Cute as a button," Clara grinned, her cheeks dimpling as her smile broadened. The Doctor did look rather dapper in his emerald green waistcoat and black pants. He'd even made an effort to comb his curly silver locks. Even more adorably, he was wearing a crimson bow tie - perhaps he'd wanted to pay homage to his previous self.

"What does that even mean?" the Doctor protested, irritably shoving a stray curl of hair behind his ear. "Humans are so stupid. Cute as a button, really? Why do you people even say that?"

She frowned, considering the question. "I don't know," she answered with some surprise. "I never really thought about it."

"Well, you should think more often," he snapped.

"Alright, no need to get tetchy," she scolded him, reaching up and rapping his forehead with her knuckles. She wasn't really mad - she knew that he became even more irritable than usual when he was nervous that she would disapprove of something he did or said.

There was a short silence during which the Doctor looked like he wanted to protest at being called 'tetchy', but it was broken by Clara. She twirled around in a slow circle, wearing a broad grin. "So, how do _I_ look?" she asked.

Actually, she was quite a sight. She was wearing a knee-length, rich crimson dress which revealed her shapely, albeit extremely short, legs. Her arms were sheathed in white elbow-length gloves. Her head actually reached the Doctor's chin tonight, because she was wearing black heels that gave her an extra few inches of elevation. She'd trimmed her dark hair so that it just brushed the tops of her shoulders, pinned her bangs back so that they framed her face, and added a slight touch of golden eye shadow around her mahogany eyes.

"Your eyes are too big," the Doctor answered, "and you're too tall - and -" he hesitated, unable to find anything else wrong with her appearance (well, he actually _couldn't_ find anything wrong with her appearance, but he couldn't _pretend_ to find anything else wrong with it.)

"So I look good then," Clara concluded, raising her eyebrow.

He mumbled something that could have been 'yes' and shuffled his feet embarrassedly.

"Well, I suppose I'm ready to go then," Clara smiled happily. "Come on, I want to find out where we are."

A few hours earlier, the Doctor had sought her out (she had been reading a book entitled How to Charm an Alien for Beginners when he'd found her, and had had to quickly hide it) and told her to get dressed. When she'd asked for what, he had simply replied,"for something nice". It had taken Clara a while to figure out what that meant, since the Doctor didn't really have a concept of 'nice', in any of its many senses. Eventually she decided that it meant she needed to look fancy for some reason or other, so she'd returned to her bedroom, chosen the nicest outfit she could find, and dressed herself up like there was no tomorrow. The Doctor had refused to breath a word to Clara about their destination, and now she was desperate to find out what it was.

The Doctor's mouth twitched in a smile at her impatience. He jerked his head towards the TARDIS door. "What are you waiting for?"

"You," Clara replied, hooking an arm around his green coat and dragging him towards the door, practically bouncing up and down in her excitement.

She gasped as she stepped outside; even she knew where the Doctor had taken her. _Everyone_ knew this place.

The flickering lights of the Plaza Hotel rose up in front of her, silhouetted against a starry night sky. Clara turned in a slow circle, taking in the New York skyline. The TARDIS was parked right next to a fountain just outside of the Plaza. Old-fashioned automobiles roared to a stop in front of it, depositing people in vivid dresses and smart suits. Central Park, the corner of which stood right next to the Plaza, stretched into the distance, lit by street-lamps.

"New York, 1926," the Doctor commented, shutting the TARDIS door behind him. So that explained the cars as big as boats, and the apparent smallness of the skyline. "There's a ball going on at the Plaza tonight."

Clara's eyes were shining. "No way."

"Way." After unobtrusively glancing around to make sure that no one had noticed the TARDIS, the Doctor crossed the road with Clara at his heels and scaled the steps two at a time. There was a man standing at the door with his hands crossed, who smiled at them as they approached.

He was barring the doorway. The Doctor attempted to sidle around him, but the man wasn't moving. Finally, he tapped Clara's arm. "Why isn't he moving?" he hissed into her air, as quietly as possible (which really meant everyone in the vicinity heard). "How are we supposed to get by?"

Clara smiled at the man as politely as possible before leaning towards the Doctor. "I think he needs identification," she murmured in his ear as casually as she could. "He can't let just _anyone_ in."

"Well, why didn't he say so?" the Doctor scoffed, pulling out his psychic paper, flipping it open, and thrusting it in the man's face. "Identification. Read it right now and let us get through."

Clara cringed. Really, the Doctor would never learn how to interact with people. The man looked startled at being spoken to so rudely, but it wasn't his job to complain. He leaned forward and scanned the crinkled paper. "Everything seems to be in order," he announced hesitantly. "Mr. and Mrs. Oswald. Enjoy your evening."

Clara grabbed the Doctor's arm and propelled him through the door, shooting the doorman an apologetic smile as she passed. The Plaza was twinkling with light from the countless chandeliers and lanterns that bedecked the walls and ceilings. "So where do we go?" she asked, her gaze darting around the magnificent interior.

The Doctor was still focused on their exchange with the doorman. "Hang on, did he say Mr. and Mrs. Oswald? _Mr. and Mrs. Oswald_? What? Do I _look_ like a Mr. Oswald?"

Clara cleared her throat, avoiding the Doctor's gaze. "Erm... I may have hacked the physic waves."

The Doctor looked extremely disgruntled. "This is ridiculous."

"Oh, shut up, it's not that bad," Clara smirked, playfully punching his arm. "At least I didn't get the paper to say 'Doctor Oswald' like that time on the Hindenburg."

"Well, that's a relief," he scowled, still looking positively furious with his thick eyebrows drawn in a cloud of annoyance over his eyes.

His petite companion grinned. "Come on, Mr. Oswald," she declared formally. "We have a ball to find. That nickname's sticking, by the way," she added, laughing when he groaned loudly.

It took them a while, as the hotel staff were extremely unhelpful, but they finally found the ballroom. Just as they were about to enter, a thought suddenly struck Clara, and she frowned. "Wait, Doctor, what sort of dancing is this going to be?"

"What - there's more than one kind?" he demanded in surprise.

She stared at him. "Yes! What did you think?"

The faintest of flushed tinged his cheeks. "Well... I thought... dancing is dancing," he muttered, looking down embarrassedly. "You just sort of do whatever you want."

Clara's eyes glinted murderously. "Are you telling me," she began, in a scarily calm voice that made the Doctor shiver,"that you brought me to a fancy ball, and you dressed up, and asked me to dress up, and you can't actually _dance_? What sort of date night is this?"

"Date night? This isn't a date night... I just wanted to take you dancing since I know you like it..." His voice faltered. "No dating. Not ever. Never. No."

She looked unconvinced. "Okay. Fine. But my question still stands."

"I can too dance," he shot back in an injured tone of voice. "I danced fine at that ball -"

"Which was in the 1800's," she finished in the same calm voice. "You danced fine at a ball in the 1800's. We are now in the twentieth century."

The Doctor looked like he wanted to say 'so what?', but he knew that would be dangerous for his face. Instead he shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "Can't be that hard to figure out... it's just sort of wiggling your feet..."

"Doctor, I really can't understand how you've managed two thousand years without learning how to dance."

He croaked something that sounded like 'not a necessary skill'. Clara leaned closer to him, smiled benignly, and said, "If you step on my feet even once, I will skin you."

The Doctor wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he wisely kept his mouth shut. Clara's good mood returned, now that she had threatened him. She slipped her small fingers into his and stepped into the ballroom as slowly and gracefully as possible.

They were not a second too soon: as they walked in, the groups of dancers clustered around the room migrated to the center, laughing and talking. Upbeat, jazzy music began playing from the corner, and the couples began to dance.

"I know this dance, it's the Charleston," Clara hissed to the Doctor. "Follow everything I do." She began to move in step with the other dancers, stepping forwards and backwards. Everyone else looked ridiculous, but Clara somehow managed to make the dancing look smooth and graceful.

The Doctor was definitely blushing now, but he complied, albeit rather halfheartedly. None of his companions had made him dance like this before... it was even more humiliating than what he had christened the Drunk Giraffe dance. "Where did you learn this... thing?" he called to Clara, over the noise of the music.

She began to step from side to side, enthusiastically swinging her arms, her dark hair shining a rich red in the lantern light. "My Dad taught me when I was sixteen," she answered. "He said... he said that Mum would've wanted me to learn if she was still alive." Her face crumpled suddenly.

The Doctor felt a pang of regret and sadness, but he had no time to do anything about it, as the next stage of the dance had arrived. Clara put her gloved hands on his shoulders. Even with her high heels (how on earth was she managing to dance in those?) she had to stretch her arms upwards to reach them. "Okay, put your hands on my shoulders - no, not there, there - and follow my footsteps." The Doctor's heartbeats sped up as his hands came into contact with Clara's shoulders. There was a scary moment during which he got distracted staring into her beautiful eyes, and almost squished her toes.

But finally, blessedly, the dance was over, and the dancers gave themselves a round of applause. The Doctor couldn't resist letting out a sigh of relief. Clara placed her hands on her hope and eyed him appraisingly. "You're not a bad dancer," she told him thoughtfully. "I could give you lessons."

"No," he responded firmly. "I can drop you off back at your flat any time."

"Mr. Grumpy," she teased him. "Oh, sorry, I forgot - Mr. Oswald -"

But just then, to his relief (and also to his dismay) the next dance started, and he was forced to follow along as Clara dragged him onto the dance floor.

The next couple of hours passed in a blur, and the Doctor was later very glad that he couldn't remember most of it, because from what he did remember he had been forced to participate in some extremely embarrassing dances. Clara, naturally, had been brilliant at every one. It was rather amazing how her coordination, grace, and poise vanished whenever she woke up in the morning looking like something the cat had dragged in.

The Doctor checked his watch impatiently; it was already eleven o'clock. Surely the dance party was almost over? His feet were aching.

An announcer's voice suddenly cut over the conversation of the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen," a smooth male voice declared smoothly,"I hope you will join us in dancing the final dance of the evening: a waltz."

The Doctor felt a surge of relief. This was one dance he actually knew. As the music started, he slipped a hand around Clara's tiny waist and grabbed her shoulder with his hand. Smiling at each other, they spun off through the crowd, a blur of green and gold floating in a sea of color.

The two of them maintained eye contact as they bobbed and whirled. In that precious moment, each of them knew exactly what the other was thinking. Knowing what that look in the Doctor's eyes meant, Clara squeezed his hand and nodded. Just a slight nod, but enough for him to see it. Their silent conversation spoke volumes, more than they could ever say out loudly.

She allowed herself to be carried away by the music. The Doctor lifted his arm and she twirled in a full circle beneath it, coming to rest on his shoulder as he supported her with his other arm. He stared down at his petite companion and smiled fondly to himself.

Finally, the dance ended, and Clara sank into a short curtsy as the Doctor bowed, still gripping each other's hands. Driven by some impulse, he drew her close and rested his chin on top of her hair, which smelled faintly of raspberries and vanilla.

They stood like that for a while, the Doctor holding Clara tightly while she rested her head on his chest. As the rest of the dancers begin to exit, laughing and talking excitedly, the Doctor reluctantly broke the moment by stepping back. "I suppose we should go," he announced gruffly. "They'll have to clean up. And whatnot."

Clara nodded. In silence, they backtracked their steps from earlier that evening and left the Plaza. All too soon they were standing in front of the TARDIS again.

The Doctor seemed to be working up the courage to say something, but as it happened, he was saved from having to speak. For just then, Clara stood on her tiptoes and planted a firm but gentle kiss on his weathered cheek. "Thank you," she breathed softly, her breath misting against his skin. "Thank you for everything."

The Doctor held a hand to his cheek as she slipped inside the TARDIS. His whole body felt like it was short circuiting, and it was a very new feeling for him. He'd felt like that before, of course - with Rose, with River - but never in this body, with these thoughts. It was a very unsettling feeling.

But he liked it.

Smiling to himself, the Twelfth Doctor followed his companion. The TARDIS hummed amusedly as he entered, and the Doctor knew exactly what she was saying. "Be quiet," he told his time machine. "One kiss on the cheek, that's all. Not a big deal. Doesn't mean anything."

Rule number one: the Doctor lies.

Let me know what you think!


	21. Chapter 21: The Doctor's Soufflé

**Firstly, I want to say thank you so much, all of you, for over 50 reviews! I honestly can't believe it. I have a special surprise in store for you as a token of my gratitude. I have a couple prompts to get through first though, and then you all shall receive my special surprise:)**

 **Secondly, I think I have outdone myself with this chapter. I literally spent more than 15 hours writing it, trying to make it perfect. It's the longest chapter I've ever written. I certainly hope it's as fluffy as everyone wanted - I had more than three people request this chapter, and I hope it lives up to your expectations.**

 **Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. Now let the Whouffaldi fluff begin!**

Clara sighed and rested her aching head against the mirror, smushing her chocolatey bangs against the glass and not even caring that her hair resembled a cat's tail that had been stuck in an electrical socket.

She'd woken up that morning with a pounding head, a severely dripping nose, and an extremely sore throat. Her thermometer had been lost ages ago when the Doctor had used it to make cocoa (long story), so she had no way of checking her temperature, but she guessed that it was high. It was early afternoon now, but her symptoms had been growing progressively worse all day, and she now had chills and a raging stomachache on top of her earlier afflictions. Probably the same mystery bug that her friend Bill had told her about last week - it had already affected one-tenth of the population of London.

Clara groaned again and pushed herself off of the mirror with some effort. There were bags under her eyes, which were red and bloodshot, and her nose was dripping again. Too weary and miserable to attempt to be hygienic, she rubbed it exhaustedly before shuffling out of the bathroom, taking slow, measured steps.

Normally, she'd be teaching English at Coal Hill by now, but her sickness had obviously prevented her from doing so. Unfortunately, Clara had been feeling far too ill all day to call the school and tell them she was taking a sick day. She hoped they didn't think she'd died in her sleep or something.

Her fluffy bunny rabbit house slippers squeaked underfoot as she finally reached her bedroom and threw herself down on her bed with a simultaneous sigh of relief and moan of pain. It took forever, but she finally managed to worm under her sheets and pull them over her head, cocooning herself in a nest of warm blankets and crimson satin pajamas.

Clara's thoughts were moving rather sluggishly, so it took her a while to realize that she should probably call the Doctor. She debated it for a while, but the agony of actually getting up and moving was too terrible to contemplate, so she fell back against her pillows again.

A hacking cough suddenly rose in her throat, racking her small frame until she was shuddering from the agony. When it had subsided, Clara's thoughts and movements were so hazy that she wondered in the back of her mind if she were about to pass out. A jumble of tangled thoughts bounced in her brain: _water... Doctor... phone ... school..._

She lay in a sort of stupor for a while, which was only broken by a particularly ferocious lance of pain in her stomach. Beneath her bed sheets, her whole body seemed to droop like a wilting flower.

And then, a few minutes later, just as she was mercifully beginning to doze off, a familiar grating noise pulsed into existence outside the bedroom.

Clara's first thoughts were of annoyance - she had just been falling asleep!

But then the sound settled in her ears as it grew ever louder, and a torrent of hope roared through her. It was the TARDIS. The Doctor was here. He'd somehow heard her frantic mental pleas for help, and here he was.

"Doctor," she croaked, feebly extending a hand, too weak to actually get up. After a few seconds, the effort became too much, and she collapsed against her pillows once more. But that curly grey hair, those flashing blue eyes, that reserved but gentle smile, those ridiculous eyebrows... they were all she could think about. "Doctor..."

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS into Clara's living room, expecting to see her familiar broad grin as she curled up on her sofa watching the telly.

She wasn't there.

"Clara, I'm here!" he called, just in case she was in the kitchen, burning yet another soufflé.

He thought he heard some sort of muffled response, so he tried again. "Clara, you haven't got yourself trapped under your couch again, have you? Or locked in your bedroom?"

Now he was beginning to worry. Where could she be? He peered into the kitchen, but it was so spotless that he knew at once she hadn't been in it for quite some time; otherwise there would have been a huge mess. It took only a few seconds to check the guest bedroom and the dining room. No one was there.

Finally he crossed over to Clara's bedroom and rapped tentatively on the closed door. This time, the Doctor distinctly heard a muffled groan in response. Suddenly worried, he swung open the door and shot inside.

A cold hand of anger and fear clutched his heart. Clara's exhausted face was peeking over the tops of the blankets, which she'd drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen and her hair was utterly disheveled, sticking up in all directions. It was this last feature that worried him most - in all the time he had known her, she had never allowed her hair to be anything other than perfect. "Clara! You're hurt!" the Doctor cried, rushing to the bed. "Who did this to you? I'll destroy them." His voice - loud, brusque, and very angry - did not help her aching head.

"No destroying," she mumbled deliriously, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. "Just sick."

He hesitated. The anger melted away into embarrassment. "Oh."

With a supreme effort, Clara struggled into a sitting position. The Doctor stared, fascinated, at her dribbling nose - it was a rather new experience for him seeing her so disheveled. "Water," Clara grunted, sniffling. "Please."

He pursed his lips concernedly and went to fetch her a glass of tap water, which Clara downed in a single gulp. The water wrought an instant change in her condition; her beautiful eyes brightened, her throat felt less sore, and her cheeks went from an unhealthy flush to a more normal pale. But it also set off a coughing fit. Clara leaned forwards, hacking and choking, her petite frame rocked by shudders.

The Doctor patted her on the back. "Come on, keep coughing," he told her encouragingly,"get that hairball out."

The shock of those words, more than anything else, caused her to stop coughing. Clara settled back on her pillow and frowned at the Doctor. "Get the _what_ out?" She could speak without feeling dizzy and achey now.

"The hairball," he repeated.

"Only cats have hairballs..."

"Oh." He paused. "Same difference." The Doctor shrugged and sat down on the bed next to her legs.

Clara was still feeling too exhausted to point out the many differences between cats and humans. "You know -" she sniffed again "-I need something."

The Doctor traced his finger along the small ridge between her middle and index fingers. "What do you need?"

"I need a Doctor."

His eyes flicked upwards. He hadn't been expecting that. Clara's eyes were brighter and clear than normal, but they were staring at him in that usual way that made him feel as if she could see into his very soul. "Well," he answered, raising his eyebrows and turning away,"the Doctor is in. What can I do for you?"

A flicker of Clara's regular smile appeared on her lips. "First of all, you can tone down your voice. The Scottish brogue isn't helping my head."

The Doctor's graying hedgy eyebrows drew together. "Now, don't go abusing your privileges of being sick, Clara."

She laughed. The sound was throaty and hoarse, but it gave the Doctor hope - at least she was well enough to attempt laughing. "I wouldn't dream of it. And secondly, you can get me some miracle Time Lord medicine."

"Sorry, no can do," the Doctor replied, staring fixedly at the wall so he didn't have to see her look of annoyance that he knew would follow his statement. "There's no such thing. We're lords of time, not medicine."

"Some doctor _you_ are," Clara pouted, throwing her sheets off and rubbing her hair. "Can you at least tell me what I'm sick with? It's like some sort of mystery bug." Her head pounded sharply and she winced; clearly she wasn't going to get better just yet.

The Doctor produced his sonic screwdriver, scanned her entire body, and held it up to his face to view the readings. "I know exactly what it is," he declared.

"And?" she prompted eagerly.

"It's some kind of mystery bug," he finished, beaming proudly as though he were immensely satisfied with this answer.

Clara'a eyes glinted. "How clever of you," she snapped acidly. "Considering I just said that."

The Doctor smiled to himself - he knew Clara would be fine if she had enough energy to taunt him. "I don't know what it is," he told her,"but I can still take care of you."

"No, no, you don't have to," she answered. "I'll get better eventually."

He cupped her cheek, which felt much warmer than usual, in his hand. "Duty of care, remember? Now wait here. I'll be right back. Just have to fetch the tools of my trade."

"If you mean stupidity, an overinflated ego, and neediness, you've already got them."

"Very funny, Clara," the Doctor called as he stood up, his velvety waistcoat flapping around his knees. "Just brilliant."

Clara sighed with relief as her head prickled one last time and then stopped aching. Perhaps the headache was gone for good. She carefully extracted herself from the mound of blankets so that her legs were stretched out across the bed. She still felt drippy and sniffly, but somehow, now that her Doctor was here, everything would be alright.

Even as she completed this thought, the Doctor rushed back inside the room. There was a jug of water and a mug in his right hand, and several washcloths were draped over his maroon jacket. Also, he was somehow balancing a stack of books on his elbow.

"Alright," the Doctor began, carefully depositing the books on Clara's bedside table,"let me just - You've got fluffy bunny slippers."

At first, the sudden change of subject took Clara by surprise. Then her gaze flickered towards her feet, and she felt her face burning. "So what?" she shot back, mainly to hide her embarrassment. "I know for a fact that _you_ still have four bow ties in your closet." The bunnies' whiskers seemed to stand more erect as she said this, as though they were cheering at her defense of her slippers.

The Doctor flushed and glanced away. "Those are just memories. I don't wear them anymore."

"And yet," Clara smirked,"I saw you trying them on in front of a mirror."

He studiously stared at the wall.

Clara decided to let him off the hook. "Fine, no more teasing. I'll stop."

The Doctor, seeming relieved, dragged a chair over to the bedside. "Good. Then I can start..." he waved a hand vaguely at the items he had brought into the bedroom,"caring."

"Must be a new concept for you," Clara couldn't resist commenting.

He raised his head so that he was looking directly into her eyes. "No. No, it's not. I've been caring for you for a very, very long time, Clara Oswald. I will always care for you."

Something in his tone told Clara that he meant 'care' in every sense of the word. But, not wanting to embarrass him, she leaned forward with some effort and tapped his nose. "Well, get started then."

The Doctor poured some water from the jug into the glass she'd used earlier, just in case she wanted another drink. Then he dipped one of the washcloths into the jug and squeezed it out, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. As he leaned closer to her, having draped the cloth over his hand, Clara grabbed his wrist - she had suddenly been struck by a worrisome thought. "Hang on - what if you get sick after taking care of me?"

The Doctor frowned. "Get sick? Me? I'm a Time Lord. I have much better resistance to disease than you pudding-brained, weak, frail -" He caught a glimpse of Clara's eyes and his voice died. "Um, people," he concluded weakly. "Anyway. I'll be fine."

Reassured, Clara let go of his wrist. The Doctor took the soaked cloth and tenderly pressed it to her forehead, wiping away the droplets of water that ran down towards her eyes. "Does your head feel better now?" he asked.

Clara grinned to herself at his boyish enthusiasm to make her feel better. "It's getting there," she promised encouragingly.

Biting his lip, the Doctor scanned her with his screwdriver again. "Looks like you have a mild headache and stomachache, chills, a sore throat, a drippy nose, and a cough. I don't really know what to do about those, except -" he paused and his face lit up. "Hang on, I'll be right back." He shot up and practically flew to the bathroom that adjoined Clara's bedroom.

The Doctor repeated a few seconds later, carrying what appeared to be the entire contents of Clara's medicine cabinet in his arms. He dumped the jumble of bottles into her lap, and she stared at it, nonplussed. "There," he announced proudly. "I have no idea what these are, but they look like they'll help. Normally I'd choose a couple using Eeeny Meeny Miny Mo -" he hesitated, and Clara knew exactly what he was thinking: _but not when your health is at stake_. "But not this time," he finished. "So, erm, it's up to you."

Touched and amused, Clara selected a couple medicines that she knew would help her current symptoms while the Doctor hovered anxiously around her bedside. After she'd downed the pills, the Doctor seemed relieved. He sat down again and wet more of the washcloths. As gently and softly as he could, he wiped her face and neck with them in an attempt to cool her skin.

Clara sniffled loudly, wishing that she had thought to keep a box of tissues by her bed. As if he'd read her mind, the Doctor fumbled around in his pockets for a minute and procured a couple of rumpled handkerchiefs. "They're clean," he assured her as she eyed them doubtfully. "Don't worry."

Still nervous, but touched all the same, Clara wiped her nose and instantly felt much better. Her condition had improved so much that she actually debated getting out of bed, but then she realized that she was quite enjoying having the Doctor take care of her and opted not to.

Eventually the Doctor peeled the cloths off her face and dumped then unceremoniously on the bedside table. "Are you feeling any better?" he inquired hesitantly.

"Yes, thanks, but not well enough to get out of bed," Clara answered, feeling a tiny bit guilty as she delivered this blatant lie, and then justifying it by telling herself that this was the first and probably last time the Doctor would ever take care of her like this.

To her surprise, the Doctor seemed a little bit... relieved. Perhaps he was enjoying caring for her as much as she was enjoying being cared for. "Well, since you can't get out of bed, I can read to you for a bit, if you want. It's a Gallifreyan tradition - when any member of your family falls ill it's your duty to entertain them as much as possible, and reading is a popular pastime on my planet."

"I'd like that," Clara told him gratefully. "Reading is good."

The Doctor held up each book as he named it. "There's Time Lord Fairy Tales, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Oliver Twist, A Comprehensive History of Gallifrey, TARDIS Instruction Manual - wait, another one? I thought I chucked this into a supernova! Oh well, I'll have to throw it out - anyway, there's also Music Through the Universe, How to Charm a Human for Beginners-" His face suddenly flushed. "What? What's this? Don't know why I picked this up..." He cleared his throat and casually tossed it over his shoulder.

Clara's heart soared - it was the companion guide to the book she'd been reading earlier, How to Charm an Alien for Beginners, and there had been a bookmark in it; the Doctor had actually been reading it!

"Anyway - I think that's it. Which one do you want to read?"

"Time Lord Fairy Tales," Clara responded without hesitation. "I don't know anything about Gallifrey... and the best way to find out is to listen to the stories told there."

"Well said, Clara. Time Lord Fairy Tales it is."

The Doctor flipped the book open, and Clara caught sight of jumbled sections of Gallifreyan text. As he was about to start reading, an idea suddenly struck her and she interrupted him. "Wait. Doctor, can you come sit by me? Since you won't get sick and all. It would be nice."

"You mean... on the bed?"

"Well... yes."

The Doctor closed his eyes, contemplating the issue. Finally he sighed and nodded wearily. "Yes. Yes, alright. But no hugs," he added, suddenly stern. "Not even one."

"Deal," Clara agreed.

He clambered onto the bed and gingerly settled himself next to her, brushing his feet against her bunny slippers. Clara smiled up at him and leaned her head onto his shoulder, placing a hand on top of his riotous hair. Her other hand rested against the elbow of his jacket, tracing out irregular patterns on it. She breathed in the Doctor's distinctive, comforting scent: machine oil, lavender, old parchment, clear, fresh mountain air, vanilla, and many more things she couldn't name. Those smells should have been awful when mixed together, but in reality they combined to make the best smell in the whole entire universe: the smell of hope, of love, of the Doctor.

The Doctor gave in to his own desires and rested his chin on top of Clara's head, breathing in the raspberries-and-vanilla scent of her mahogany-colored hair. Tracing his fingers along the old Gallifreyan lettering, he began to read out loudly to his companion, his musical accent rising and falling as he spoke. "On a faraway planet, there was a garden. But not a garden of flowers and fields. It was a garden of shadows..."

The Doctor read for hours, alighting upon tales of statues that moved and metal men; of death and sadness, and of hope and joy. He delighted in watching Clara's facial expressions change as he progressed through the book; sometimes tears stood in her beautiful wise eyes, elicited into existence by the plight of some unfortunate character, and at other times satisfied smiles played on her lips as heroes triumphed and villains were destroyed. She was a fantastic audience - she reacted, she asked questions, she loved the stories as though she had penned them herself. With every word that he allowed to fall from his tongue, the Doctor felt his love for the woman beside him growing and growing until he felt that his hearts could no longer contain his feelings.

All too soon, the last page of the book was upon them. "He took her in her arms and she took him in hers, and thus they were destroyed while they held each other," the Doctor read. "But they were happy, for they would rather die together than live alone. And so unfolded their happy ending." With an air of finality, he shut the book and laid it aside.

Clara was gazing at him in rapture, having became so caught up in the events of the book that her eyes were dreamy and unfocused. The sound of the book closing seemed to bring herself back to reality; she shook herself and frowned. "Wait, that's it?" She coughed into her elbow - her throat had grown sore again.

"That's it," the Doctor confirmed simply.

"But - they died!"

"They died together," he corrected. "That's all they wanted."

"I know," she murmured, subsiding. "Still. It was really sudden."

"What did you think of the book though?" the Doctor asked, suddenly anxious. He realized that he wanted Clara to approve of his heritage.

"It was really interesting. But I think that story about the Weeping Angels scarred me for life; I'll be staring at all the statues now," Clara replied, grinning, as she snuggled even closer to the Doctor.

As he stared down at her, her eyes flashed, and he knew with certainty that she was about to ask a question. She always got that look in her eyes when she had just thought of a question. Sure enough, a moment later, she asked,"What do you think was the moral of that last story?"

"I think," he replied, choosing his words carefully,"I think it was saying that love - in any form - is eternal... and everyone succumbs to it. There is always someone you love." His eyes lingered on Clara's small form, her square nose, her rosy cheeks, her kind eyes. He hastily looked away, but not before he had noticed in Clara's eyes the same expression that he felt must be in his own.

Clara tentatively laced her fingers into his, and after a moment's hesitation, the Doctor squeezed them tightly. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to set; the sky had lost some of its brightness. Clara appeared to notice this as well, because she inquired,"Doctor, can you tell me the time?"

With some annoyance he discovered that he had neglected to put on his watch, and there was no clock in Clara's bedroom. "Haven't you got a phone?" he demanded, somewhat irritably, his beetling eyebrows drawing together as he frowned.

Her eyes widened. "Oh my stars. My phone -" the worry in her voice set off yet another coughing fit. When Clara had recovered, she continued,"I have no idea where it went; I might have run it through the wash again. Would you mind looking for it?"

"Yes, Your Highness," he answered drily, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and bounding to his feet. "Shall I get you a coffee while I'm at it?"

"That would be great," Clara called after him, a slight smirk lurking in her voice, as he left the room.

It took the Doctor a few minutes, but he eventually found her phone in the laundry machine. His harebrained companion had evidently been Snapchatting while unloading the dryer (for the second time now) and had accidentally left the phone behind. The laundry machine had been eleventh on his list of places to check - he knew Clara well enough by now to know the places where she most often lost her phone. Other possible candidates had included underneath the coffee maker (it had happened before), beneath the couch, and inside the oven.

The Doctor hopefully pressed one of the two buttons on the side of the phone, but nothing happened. These little human devices were so _stupid_ ; where was the on button? It took him a few more seconds to find it. He turned the phone on and discovered that it was past five o'clock. Also, Clara's apparent boyfriend, P.E. - even the thought of him made the Doctor's hearts flare with jealousy - had sent her several rather clingy and sappy texts. The Doctor resolved not to tell Clara about them.

But it was Clara's lock screen picture that really stood out. His eyes softened as he stared at it. There was Clara, laughing, her head turned to the side as she kissed the Doctor's cheek, displaying the mischievous dimple in her cheek. And there was the Doctor next to her, his mouth puckered in surprise, his eyebrows drawn together, and his forehead crinkled. One of Clara's hands was wrapped around his head, resting on the side of his curly grey hair. He remembered the exact day this had happened; they'd been on Xaphorious-2B, a planet known for its rocks and minerals, and Clara had decided to snap a selfie next to a mountain made entirely of amethyst. At the last minute, she'd sneakily changed the camera angle so that the Doctor was also included in the picture. He had had to bribe her with ten pounds of chocolate in order to make her promise not to post the photo on Instagram.

Suddenly, the Doctor heard a shout from the bedroom. "Doctor? Oi! I've called you six times!"

He shook himself out of his memory-induced reverie. "I wasn't listening."

"Well, obviously! Did you find my phone? What time is it?" Her words were punctuated by a loud sniffle, and the Doctor heard her mutter a curse word under her breath. There was a shifting sort of sound as though she had dived out of her covers. Perhaps she had had a snot emergency.

The Doctor's lips twitched in a smile at the thought of _Clara Oswald_ having a snot emergency. "It's 5:27," he called back. "Dinner time."

"Are you staying for dinner then?"

The Doctor could tell Clara was trying to disguise the pleasure in her voice. "As long as it's not one of your soufflés," he answered.

A muffled sigh came from the bedroom. "My soufflés are delicious."

"I'm sure they are, when you haven't burned, dropped, or otherwise mutilated them. Oh wait - that's happened every time."

The Doctor could practically hear Clara's teeth gritting together.

"Okay, look," he sighed in an attempt to placate her,"I'll root around in your fridge for a bit. There might be something there." The Doctor entered her abnormally pristine kitchen and cautiously opened the fridge, suddenly entertaining dreams (more like nightmares) of finding it full of soufflé attempts. To his surprise, the contents were much more edible: an assortment of fruits, vegetables, and dairy products, along with some cold turkey, a package of fish fingers, and a random slice of cake. The freezer contained nothing but dessert: ice cream, frozen cheesecake, macaroons, and even something that looked suspiciously like a store bought soufflé (the poor girl was so bad at making them herself she had to buy them at the store). The pantry was slightly less appealing: there were, of course, all of the usual contents one would expect to find in a pantry, such as flour and crackers, but there was a to-do list on one of the shelves that was unfinished, but was still terrifying. It read:

1) Buy ingredients for more soufflés.

The Doctor shuddered and scooted away. An idea suddenly began to boil in his mind. _What if... what if I make Clara dinner? I couldn't possibly make it worse than she does. It's worth a try_. To be honest, he had been excited to try his hand at cooking ever since he'd come up with fish fingers and custard all those years ago. What other creations of culinary genius could he come up with?

The matter was settled. "Lasagna, fish fingers, and... hmm, why not a soufflé," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands together. "And to challenge myself, I won't even use my sonic screwdriver." (The screwdriver had many settings which could come in use in the kitchen, including Whisk, Bake, and Stir.)

He determinedly opened a cupboard, removed a metal mixing bowl, and promptly dropped it.

"Doctor?" Clara shouted from the kitchen, as the echoes of the sound reverberated throughout the flat. "What was that? Do I need to get out of bed? Are you destroying my kitchen again?"

Her voice still sounded thick and stuffy, but he was glad to hear that she sounded mostly normal again. "No to the first question," he replied, picking up the bowl as quietly as he could. "And probably not to the second. I'm just... doing a thing."

There was a rather drawn-out pause, and the Doctor knew that Clara was contemplating ways to threaten him. He hastily continued,"Don't worry. I'll try not to burn anything."

He could hear the smile in her voice as she answered. Clara's smiles were always audible; it was an aspect of hers that the Doctor loved more than he cared to admit. "You'd better not, Mister."

The Doctor beamed - that was the equivalent of a certificate of approval, for Clara - and got to work.

It had now been two hours, and Clara was two hundred percent sure that the Doctor was making her dinner.

The smells wafting in through the open doorway had made that obvious. Also the loud crashes and clangs and the muttered curses in Gallifreyan.

She knew that the Doctor was trying to surprise her, though, so she had spent the last two hours pretending to be completely oblivious. Every time the Doctor popped in to check in on her, she made sure to ask what exactly he was doing outside. It amused her greatly to watch him adopt what he thought was a mysterious smile and exit dramatically without answering.

After a particularly loud burst of noise had ensued from the kitchen, Clara had taken the opportunity to creep out of bed and retrieve How to Charm a Human for Beginners from the floor. It was really quite an odd book. Some of the tips it mentioned made it seem as though the author had never even _met_ a human. On the other hand, some of them were immensely insightful. Clara felt a rush of joy every time she read a suggestion and realized that the Doctor had actually tried it out on her. (For example, "Any human - at least a female one - loves to be given flowers." She lovingly recalled the time that the Doctor had turned up at her doorstep with a bouquet of roses. They'd been half-wilted, but she'd given him points for effort anyway. Back then, Clara had thought he'd been trying to make up for ditching her in Germany for three days without any means of communication, but... perhaps there'd been more to it than that.)

There was a loud ding from the oven and the Doctor gave a triumphant shout. Clara hastily tossed the book back on the floor and gathered her blankets around her, not wanting to be discovered reading the book that had made him so embarrassed.

A few minutes later the Doctor shuffled into view, carrying a large red tray and walking very slowly so as not to spill anything. "Can I come in?" he called. The grin on his face was wider than Clara had ever seen it before. His face was flushed from working in the heat of the kitchen, and his curly hair was a mess, but his lined face was shining with happiness.

Clara hastily arranged her features into an expression of pleasant surprise. "Of course you can. What have you got on that tray?"

"I made you dinner!" The Doctor beamed proudly and deposited the tray on Clara's lap with a flourish. "Surprise!" He sat down on her bed next to her feet.

She pretended to be surprised. "Doctor, you shouldn't have!"

He attempted and failed to look modest. "Oh, I know. But I did."

"Well, thank you," Clara smiled, running her hands through his thick hair and then tweaking his nose. "That was really sweet of you."

Clara examined the contents of the tray one by one. There was a plate full of a shriveled, blackened mass that had been burned behind recognition. She tried to figure out what it was, but was forced to admit defeat after a few minutes. "Erm... what was that?" she asked the Doctor as politely as she could. He had evidently let it sit in the oven too long, whatever it was.

He adopted a look of indignation. "What do you mean, what _was_ that?" he demanded. "It's still here, isn't it?"

"I say 'what was that' because... well, it looks sort of... dead," she explained apologetically.

"Well, you _would_ know what dead cooking looks like," the Doctor shot back rudely. "It's lasagna."

"Ah... I see." She prodded it with her finger and flakes of carbon fell off of it. "Is it... edible?"

"Well, I'll admit it came out a bit odd," the Doctor answered. "All that black, and whatnot. But I think you can still eat it. I've put the rest in your fridge for leftovers."

Clara silently vowed to scrape it into the bin as soon as she could. "It looks delicious," she promised, lying through her teeth.

There was also a bowlful of custard (which the Doctor proudly declared he had made himself) and a napkin covered with fish fingers. Clara had to laugh. "Fish fingers and custard. Remembering the good old days, eh?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Well, I haven't had it in a while. I thought it would be nice to make it again."

Clara felt her jaw drop as she stared at the final dish on the tray. It was a soufflé - a perfect soufflé. Clara vaguely knew what a perfect soufflé looked like; she remembered that one of her soufflés had turned out looking perfect once. But she hadn't seen one in such a long time that it was quite a shock seeing one in front of her (especially considering that it had been made by the _Doctor_ ). Most of her soufflés had to be taken to the Dumpster as soon as they came out of the oven, because they smelled so burnt that it was impossible to keep them in the house. So it was a pleasant surprise seeing a whole and unburnt one, waiting for her to eat it.

She sneezed and cleared her throat. "You _made_ this?" she managed to croak, her eyes watering from the sneeze.

"Pretty sure I did," the Doctor replied. "It was my first try. I thought I'd have a go."

"I'm impressed. It looks amazing. But I have to taste it before I can pass judgement," she added, grinning mischievously. She took the proffered fork and promptly dropped it as chills raced through her arm.

"Are you alright?" the Doctor questioned, taking hold of her hand and pressing the fingers of his other hand over hers. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, suppressing with a supreme effort the tickle in her throat that signified the beginning of another coughing fit - she didn't want to worry him. "Just chills."

The Doctor set his jaw determinedly, picked up the fork, and stabbed it into the lasagna, still holding one of her small hands. Then he held up the fork. "Open your mouth."

She did, and he carefully and tenderly slid the fork inside. Clara chewed the lasagna and swallowed it as quickly as she could. It wasn't terrible, once you got past the burned-beyond-recognition outer shell. At least she could still taste; she'd been worried that her sickness had taken her taste as well. The Doctor had already prepared the next bite, and she allowed him (with some reluctance) to feed it to her.

Finally, mercifully, the lasagna was all gone. The Doctor stared deeply into Clara's eyes as he dipped one of the fish fingers into the custard and held it up to her mouth. No words needed to be said; they could read everything they needed to in each other's eyes.

A wave of memories surged over Clara as the first taste of the custard hit her mouth: a gaudy red bowtie, floppy hair, a jammy dodger with a bite already taken out of it, deep green eyes and a soft smile, a kiss shared when they thought no one was looking... For a brief second, she remembered the Doctor, her first Doctor, and felt a storm of inexplicable sadness crash over her. He was lost now; gone forever. She could never see him again.

But then Clara stared into the eyes of the man in front of her, that old, gray, beautiful man, and her heart surged with love. Her _first_ Doctor may be gone, but her Doctor was still here, and she loved him more than ever. She thought that he knew what she was thinking - maybe she imagined it - but she thought she saw a tear glistening in his wise blue eyes, gone as quickly as it had come.

Clara brushed her thumb along the Doctor's hand, trying to communicate what she couldn't say in words. _I see you. I love you. I still love you and I always will, I promise._

This time she was sure she saw the Doctor nod. She squeezed his hand once more, and he smiled a tiny smile as he placed the last bite of fish finger in her mouth.

Only the soufflé was left, little wisps of steam still rising from it. The warm scent of vanilla filled the air. "You should test it to make sure it isn't poisoned before you give it to me," Clara joked.

"Only your soufflés need poison testing," the Doctor teased her in response, slicing off a small portion of the soufflé. "Here goes."

Clara's taste buds tingled as the sweet vanilla flavor and flaky crust entered her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring every last morsel until it was gone. Then her eyes popped open. "How is it," she demanded, feeling a tiny glare of jealousy ,"that you manage to make a perfect soufflé on your first go, and I still haven't got the hang of it?"

The Doctor's face seemed to relax. "So - so it's good then?" he asked, almost anxiously.

"Are you joking? It's amazing! Where did you get this recipe?"

He smiled shyly. "I've watched you making them often enough. I just did it from memory... with a few tweaks."

"You should be a baker," Clara told him, her voice slightly muffled, as the Doctor had just given her the next bite. "You really should." She shook her head in disbelief.

"Would you like me to teach you?" the Doctor asked, his Scottish accent hesitant and faltering. "I could, you know. If you want."

She met his gaze. "I would like that."

A comfortable silence hung over them as the Doctor fed her the rest of the soufflé. At the last bite, however, Clara reached out and placed a hand on his wrist. "I want you to try it."

The Doctor frowned and shook her arm off. "Don't be silly. I made it for you."

He tried to lift the fork up, but Clara grabbed his wrist again. "It's the last bite. I want you to have it."

This time, when the Doctor opened his mouth to protest, Clara leaned forward and gently placed a finger on his lips. He was too surprised to react, so she tenderly slid the fork from his grasp and speared the last portion of soufflé. Before he could do anything about it, she removed her finger and slid the fork into his slightly open mouth.

The Doctor chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed, realizing that he couldn't really complain anymore - what was done was done. "It's not bad," he mused. "Better than yours, that's for sure."

"You really know how to compliment a girl," Clara giggled, settling herself back on her pillows.

"It's my specialty." The Doctor offered her a half-smile and stood up, gathering the tray and dishes in his arms. "I'm going to clear this up."

"Don't worry about doing the dishes," Clara called after his retreating figure. "I'll do them when I'm better." She sneezed very loudly six times in succession. "Even though it might be a while."

The Doctor turned around and eyed her incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous. You're sick. I'm taking care of you, so I'll take care of the dishes too. May as well. I can do them without breaking them, if that's what you're worried about."

Since there was nothing she could do to stop him, Clara subsided into silence while the Doctor did the dishes. When he came back, he crouched down, fished out his sonic screwdriver, and scanned her forehead. "Your temperature is 38.2 degrees Celsius," he told her. "You're still running a slight fever. Rest should fix you up. In fact, I want you to start sleeping now. The more you sleep, the sooner you'll recover."

"Yes, Mother," Clara replied drowsily, already feeling her eyes drooping. She lay down with the covers tucked under her arms.

The Doctor felt an unnameable emotion pounding in his chest as he watched his companion. Not sure entirely why he was doing it, he maneuvered himself onto the bed and adopted the same position that he had when he'd been reading earlier that day.

Clara, in a rush of affection, scooted upwards and rested her head on the Doctor's lap. She reached upwards and pressed a warmer-than-usual hand to his face, caressing his weathered skin. "Are you staying?"

It took him only a split second to make his decision. "Yes," the Doctor responded simply. "Yes. I'll stay with you tonight."

She allowed her fingers to dance over every inch of his skin, tracing the lines that framed his mouth and stroking the edges of his curly hair. "You know," she murmured sleepily, her soulful eyes half-closed,"I just realized something." The Doctor inclined his head so that he could stare Clara in the eye. "You used to have a young face and old eyes," she whispered, her breathing short and uneven. "But now you have an old face... and young eyes..."

The Doctor began to lovingly stroke her hair, brushing her bangs behind her ears. Clara sleepily curled a hand around his wrist, and he slowly and hesitantly bent down and planted a soft kiss on her uniquely square nose, nothing somewhere in the back of his mind that her breath was warm and fresh even while she was sick. "Clara," he murmured in a hoarse, choked voice.

The word summed up everything that the Doctor's brain was screaming at him to say, and Clara knew it. "Doctor," she breathed back, affectionately snuggling into his velvety waistcoat. And as she drifted off to sleep, the last thing she felt was the gentle touch of the Doctor's hand on her hair, and the last thing she saw was the tear of pure happiness that dripped from his eye and splashed on her cheek...

Long after Clara had fallen asleep, the Doctor ran his calloused fingers over the smooth, pencil-thin curves of her eyebrows, staring at her bedroom wall without really seeing it. Her slow, even breathing filled his ears, more soothing than any other sound he knew. Every one of her breaths confirmed that she was alive and well, and that was more important to him than anything else in the world.

But her last words to him before she had fallen asleep had kindled a flash of memory in the deepest, most untouched recesses of the Doctor's mind. "Clara," he mused, tapping out a uneven pattern on her pale cheek with his fingers, talking out loudly to her even though he knew she was sleeping. "Clara, Clara, Clara. Where did you hear those words? They're from an old Time Lord saying... but how could you possibly know that? Perhaps your brain picked up the memories of your Time Lady echo..." He paused, idly twirling his fingers in her French-toast colored hair. "Do you know what they say on Gallifrey? They say, 'A young face and old eyes, you choose your friends to make them wise. But an old face and young eyes... Upon your friends' wisdom your life relies.'"

Slowly and carefully, the Doctor maneuvered Clara's still prone figure onto his chest, cradling her head against his neck and smiling adoringly at her as she mumbled something in her sleep. The sound of her heartbeat, so frail compared to his two powerful ones, pounded in his ears almost as loudly as his own. He grinned fondly at the sound of her gentle snoring - Clara Oswald, the woman who swore she never snored.

The Doctor pondered the Time Lord saying and realized that it fit his own life perfectly. He'd been younger, more confident, more charming when he'd chosen Clara to travel with him. Yes, a part of him had wanted to unravel the mystery of his Impossible Girl. But he knew that he had also wanted someone new to teach and impress, someone who would be awed and inspired by him. And Clara perfectly fit the bill. He had, in a sense, chosen Clara to make her wise. But now the Doctor was older, more experienced; he had taken Clara on a mad dance through the stars, and she was wise because of it, wise beyond her years. Yes, he still knew things she didn't; yes, there was still more to teach her, but he found himself relying more and more on her ability to solve every problem and to use her wisdom to make decisions and judgements. The Doctor would go so far as to admit that she was now wiser than he had ever been. Perhaps that was the main difference between humans and Time Lords - Time Lords grew set in their ways after living for so long; they grew used to depending on experience rather than wisdom. But humans had such short lives that experience counted for practically nothing. They were all forced to develop some form of wisdom to survive, and traveling the universe gave you a wisdom you could never hope to gain anywhere else.

The Doctor gave a heavy sigh, fraught with all the pain and misery of his years. Then he glanced down to behold the sleeping woman curled against his chest and felt a pang of embarrassment. "What am I doing feeling sorry for myself when I've got you right here, eh?" he murmured gently. "My Clara Oswald. I'm just being a silly old man. Don't mind me. I've got no reason to be sad, not when I've got you."

And yet his eyes were more watery than normal as he bent down and pressed a tender kiss to her feverish brow.

The Doctor stayed in that position for a while, his nose pressed against Clara's, his arms wrapped around her small frame. And then, all of a sudden, his eyes closed and he was asleep, quicker than he had ever fallen asleep in his life, because Clara's warm presence was so comforting and soothing that it allowed him to truly forget all his worries and sink into a dreamland free of pain and heartbreak.

So the Doctor and his companion slept on, subconsciously soothed by each other. Eventually, Clara was awoken in the morning by the dull pounding of the Doctor's twin heartbeats, beating a constant rhythm against her chest. She cracked her sore eyelids open and stared at the Doctor's wrinkled and familiar face. His forehead was still pressed to hers, and his mouth was slightly open. All in all, an endearing picture, accompanied by some markedly less endearing snores. Clara chuckled under her breath. Forgetting, for a blessed moment, her current illness, she lovingly brushed her small nose against his large one, entwining her hands in his hair. And then she smiled drowsily and lowered her head once more, allowing the Doctor's familiar heartbeats to lull her back to sleep...

 **Yes, that was a shameless reference to the new companion:) Also, there really is a book called Time Lord Fairy Tales, and it's brilliant! I highly recommend it.**

 **I would really lune to write a companion fic to this where the Doctor becomes sick and Clara has to take care of him. Does anyone else want that? Please let me know in the comments; if you think it's a good idea, I would really love to do it. (Also if the person who gave me the two prompts after this one agrees to let me postpone writing her prompts:D)**

 **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and for sticking with this story. See you next time.**


	22. Chapter 22: I Need a Doctor

**Whew, this one is even longer than the last one! I had nine people request this, so I really really hope I've done it justice. I hope you all love it. I made it super fluffy:)**

 **Thanks for reading; please leave a review if you can. It will really brighten my day when I get back from my mini-vacation tomorrow. Thanks so much for supporting this story. Now let the Whouffaldi fluffiness begin! Enjoy!**

The Doctor growled determinedly under his breath and pushed his spindly body off the TARDIS console, swaying precariously for a few seconds and then righting himself. He pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing as the lights seared his eyes, suddenly much brighter than normal. Something was wrong with him. He didn't know what, but he could tell that all was not right. He had woken up that morning feeling all funny - his whole body had been quivery and achey. Now his head was pounding, and it sometimes felt like he had just been spinning around. The Doctor recalled that humans called it 'dizzy'. But he had never been dizzy before. Why was he dizzy now?

A tingly feeling suddenly erupted in his throat, and the Doctor instinctively sucked in his breath. Panic bloomed in his hearts. What was happening to him? He suddenly had no control over his body... just like a human.

Even as that horrifying thought struck him, the tingle in his throat turned into a tickle. The Doctor suddenly realized what was coming. "No-" he croaked, his eyes watering from the effort of suppressing the tickle. "No-get back in- I _will not_ -"

But his efforts were futile. He erupted into a hacking cough, almost bent double from its force. He leaned against the console, coughing relentlessly, his eyes streaming. When the coughing fit finally subsided, he slumped even more heavily against the console, panting and gasping. His eyes were vacant, bloodshot, and red-rimmed, and his limbs were trembling slightly. Coughing like that was a new experience for him; he'd never done it before, and it terrified him. Those awful choking sounds had scared him enough when Clara was making them, but it was somehow much more frightening when you made them yourself.

The Doctor's brain felt hazy and slow, which was rather annoying, because his brain was one of the best in the universe (which was _not_ boasting. It was just stating a fact. Clara seemed to think otherwise, though, whenever he said that to her). He lowered a hand to his chest. His hearts were still beating, so he wasn't dying... yet. Then what was happening? Was he malfunctioning somehow? This sort of thing had never happened to him in all of his two thousand years. Maybe it was routine for Time Lords to malfunction when they reached this age.

All of a sudden the pain behind his eyes increased sharply, along with his dizziness. The Doctor spun around, searching for the TARDIS door, but his vision was filled with pulsing black dots that completely obscured his sight. "I need-" he murmured croakily, beginning to slump to the floor as he dimly realized that he was about to pass out. "I need-"

A cool hand suddenly grabbed the back of his curly head as he began to fall, and another one slid around his waist, holding him steady. The Doctor didn't know or care who it belonged to; he was just relieved for the support. Closing his eyes in relief, he crouched a little bit and rested his head on the person's shoulder, gripping the hand around his waist in case he started passing out again.

As the Doctor swayed exhaustedly, his nose against the person's bare shoulder, he felt his dizziness beginning to recede, and a familiar warm scent suddenly hit his nostrils. Vanilla and raspberries.

The Doctor's eyes popped open. Clara. Of course it was Clara. Honestly, why was he surprised? He had needed her, and here she was, even though it seemed impossible. But then again, she _was_ his Impossible Girl.

Clara drew back and stared searchingly into his blue-grey eyes, pressing her slim hand to his waist. "Doctor, are you alright?" she inquired, her warm, wise eyes filled with concern. "I came in and saw you falling over."

The Doctor stared at her odd little nose and felt a wave of relief wash over him. Clara was here now. Everything would be okay, and perhaps she could tell him what was happening to him. Already he was starting to feel better - he still felt drippy and achey, but he wouldn't be passing out again any time soon; his head had stopped spinning. "I'm fine," he told her shortly, stepping backwards to escape the close contact. "Just fine. How did you get here?"

Clara's eyes twinkled mischievously as she tossed her French-toast hair over her shoulder. "Oh, you know me. I'm like a bad penny, always turning up when you least expect it."

 _A lucky penny_ , the Doctor corrected her mentally. _My lucky penny_. Out loudly, he asked,"No really, how did you get here? I landed the TARDIS in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, if the middle of nowhere is the supply closet near my classroom, then yeah," Clara chuckled, the dimple in her left cheek deepening as she smiled. "I went in to get notepaper and found the TARDIS instead. Nice surprise."

The Doctor felt a surge of love, both for Clara, who had an impeccable sense of timing even if she didn't know it, and for the TARDIS, who had probably landed in Clara's school on purpose.

Clara stood on her tiptoes to pat the top of the Doctor's riotous locks before lowering her hand. "So where are we going this time?"

He opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to answer, but as it turned out, he didn't have to. For at that exact moment, he let loose a giant sneeze that made his entire body shudder.

When his eyes stopped watering, the Doctor glanced up and sheepishly met Clara's unamused gaze. She was standing with her arms crossed, covered with the remnants of his sneeze. The Doctor didn't know what to do. He had never sneezed before; what was the proper human etiquette for such things? "Erm... my deepest condolences," he mumbled, wiping his nose on his velvety coat.

"I am officially disgusted," Clara announced flatly. "Also, the term is 'excuse me'. And I think you're sick."

"I'm not sick!" the Doctor protested. "I can't be sick, I just can't. Time Lords are hardly ever sick." And then he sat down with a bump on the floor as dizziness overtook his whole body for the second time that day. His throat hurt when he swallowed. Despite himself, a tiny sliver of doubt wormed into his mind. If he wasn't sick, then what was he? This was the most alien thing that had ever happened to him.

"So, Time Lords don't get sick, eh?" Clara crouched down and rubbed his back sympathetically, apparently having forgiven him for sneezing on her. "Cos you definitely sound sick to me, Mister."

"I'm not sick," he snapped. "I'm -" His words were drowned out by another giant sneeze that rocked his entire body. The Doctor felt his hearts pounding much faster than normal. It wasn't natural for him to be making noises like that. That was a human thing.

Clara pulled out a handkerchief from her dress pocket and handed it to him. "Doctor, you're definitely -"

"Clara, I'm malfunctioning," he gasped, his eyes streaming. "Like you were malfunctioning last time I saw you. All gaspy and sneezy and coughy and dead-looking. I'm malfunctioning!"

A tiny frown creased her brow at the word 'dead-looking', but she made no comment. "Okay, if that's what you want to call it."

"Can you fix me?" the Doctor asked desperately, leaning against his companion's chest and gazing into her eyes. "Please?"

Clara's lips twitched. "I can try. But you have to do whatever I tell you to."

"Don't you make me do that anyway?" the Doctor grunted wearily.

"You aren't half rude!" she fired back indignantly. "Okay, shut up and let me take care of you!" She helped him get to his feet. "Here, give me the sonic so I can take your temperature. Since you lost my thermometer..." She turned an annoyed stare on him.

The Doctor scooted away and turned his head, sliding a protective hand around his sonic screwdriver. "Temperature? I'm only malfunctioning; that can't make my temperature go up. I'm not sick, Clara; I'm fine!"

"Doctor, just give it to me!"

"I'm fine; I'm only malfunctioning a little!"

"Give. Me. The. Bloody. Sonic!" Clara couldn't believe his stubbornness. The Doctor was sick and he knew it, even if he was too stubborn to admit it. Why did he want to keep pretending he was fine?

"I. Am. Fine!"

Clara let out a noise between a growl and a shout, dived at him, and wrested the sonic from his grasp. The Doctor had to resist the urge to panic - there was no scarier sight than that of Clara Oswald charging at you with a murderous glint in her eye.

"I said you have to do everything I tell you," she reminded him, panting slightly from the exertion of tackling the Doctor, who was much heavier and broader than she was. "Now hold still." She twisted the end of the screwdriver to change the setting, held it up to his forehead, and scanned him.

The Doctor marveled at the ease with which Clara handled the sonic. She was as adept with it as he was himself.

Clara frowned as she shut off the screwdriver, allowing the buzzing noise to die out. "Um, this says your temperature is seventeen degrees Celsius."

The Doctor's face paled even more than it already was, and his hedgy eyebrows drew together. "Really?"

"I'm guessing that's bad?"

"I'm supposed to have a core temperature of fifteen degrees. So yes, that's bad." He coughed weakly and sniffled, feeling a sharp pain behind his eyes. "I suppose I am sick. Being sick is so overrated."

"What do you mean?" Clara wanted to know, taking his hand and guiding him over to the console in case he needed something to lean on.

"I mean being sick sounds fun - you're supposed to get pampered with blankets and ice cream and whatnot - but it's really just awful!"

"It's not that bad," Clara replied consolingly, "it's just your first time being sick, that's all."

"And," the Doctor continued, pretending that he hadn't heard her, "I probably got this thing from you, after I was taking care of you last week! I _told_ you not to make me take care of you!"

Clara drew back. " _Excuse_ me," she snapped waspishly, a dangerous glint in her eye, "you said no such thing. Your exact words were, 'Get sick? Me? I'm a Time Lord. I have much better resistance to disease than you pudding-brained, weak, frail people.'"

The Doctor's sigh turned into yet another sneeze. "I was counting on you not remembering that."

He looked so pathetically ill, with the dark bags under his pale, tired eyes, his rumpled hair, and his drooping, spidery body, that Clara decided not to get mad at him. Instead, she placed a tender hand on his shoulder, and rested her other one against his chest, feeling the frantic beats of his double hearts. "No matter _how_ you got sick, Doctor, the fact remains that you _are_ sick, and I'm going to take care of you. Don't even think about trying to stop me." She glimpsed a hint of wariness in his eyes, followed by grudging acceptance, and smiled. "Good. Let's get you to your bedroom then, shall we? Where is it?"

The Doctor realized with a jolt that he trusted Clara completely and wholly; that he was both unconsciously and unhesitatingly trusting her with his life and his body now. Why? he asked himself. He had suffered more pain and loss than anyone in the universe, and he was more alone than anyone ever could be. How, then, could he trust this woman, this beautiful, amazing woman, so much; enough to give her charge of his health? Even as he asked himself this question, he instinctively knew that Clara, and only Clara, would be able to nurse him back to good health. Yes, anyone at any hospital could probably help him. But only Clara, he knew, would give him her full and unwavering love and attention; would treat him like he was an extension of herself. Perhaps that was why he trusted her so much. Perhaps he knew that she cared for him more than anyone ever had before, or ever could.

The Doctor's eyes must have seemed very distant and dreamy, because when he came back to reality again, he found that Clara was waving her hand in front of his face. She sighed with relief as his arms stirred and his eyes flicked down to her face. "Oh, good. I thought you were passing out on me. I asked where your bedroom was."

"Next to yours," the Doctor answered without thinking.

Clara groaned, clapping a hand to her pale forehead. "Ugh, that means it'll be as far away as possible. The snogbox always makes sure I have to walk at least an hour to get where I want to." Then the Doctor's words registered, and her chocolatey eyes widened. "Wait, did you say next to mine?"

A dull flush colored the Doctor's weathered cheeks, and he glanced down at the metal grating that comprised the floor. "Yes."

"Why?" Clara asked, half-amused, half-freaked out.

There was no point lying to her. The Doctor wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling cold and shivery, as he answered. "Because I have very good hearing, and I can hear you breathing through the walls, and it comforts me because I know you're still here." He continued to stare studiously at the floor, too embarrassed to meet Clara's gaze.

But when he finally couldn't stand the silence anymore and looked up, there was a tear shining on Clara's cheek, and her smile was watery. "Do you know, I think that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," she murmured softly, squeezing her hand against his chest so that the fabric of his shirt scrunched up.

The Doctor tried to offer her a smile in return, but it morphed into a wet cough, which reminded Clara of his predicament. She shook herself and quickly took her hand off of his shirt - the Doctor felt unreasonably sad, like he had just lost something dear to him, as she did so. "Okay," Clara mused aloud,"the snogbox - I mean the TARDIS - knows you're sick, so she might put your bedroom closer to us. It's worth a try."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "No. My bedroom is messy."

"Since when has that ever stopped you from doing anything?" Clara demanded exasperatedly.

"Since you. I don't like showing you messes, Clara Oswald, because you can't pull yourself away until you've cleaned them up."

"That is not true!" she protested heatedly. "Well - sometimes -"

"Is this really the time to be talking about this?" the Doctor demanded. He was sad to end the conversation, since he'd actually just managed to make her admit that he was right, but he really wasn't feeling great.

Clara pursed her lips. "You're right. Okay, since we don't actually know where your bedroom is -" she cast an annoyed glance at the TARDIS - "it'll have to be my house. It should be an easy flight, since we're already close by."

"Won't the school miss you?" the Doctor questioned, absently fiddling with the buttons of his jacket as he tried and failed to prevent an enormous bubble of snot from dripping out of his nose (fortunately, he managed to wipe it away before Clara saw).

"Yeah, but taking care of you is more important!" she chirped. "I'll just tell them my students mastered the concepts I was teaching them early, so I didn't see any point in staying at school."

"And did they?"

"No, of course not. But the other teachers don't need to know that." Clara smiled slyly.

Although it would admittedly be fun spending time with Clara in her flat, the Doctor was still clinging to the hope that he wasn't actually sick. He didn't want to be treated like he was sick, and given plain toast and pills, and have absolutely nothing to do while he stayed in bed. And so he made one last desperate attempt to get out of going to Clara's house. "I'll probably be a huge bother, you know. I'll probably complain and be fussy and I won't stay in bed when you ask me to."

Of course, Clara saw through this ruse instantly. She reached up and rested her both of her hands on his cheeks, tracing her fingers along the faint stubble that covered them. "Doctor, you idiot, let other people do something for you for once! You've given us so much; now let us take care of you! Let _me_ take care of you." She saw that he was wavering and decided to employ her final and most effective tactic. She gave him her biggest doe eyes. "Please?"

"One day I'm going to outlaw those eyes," the Doctor mumbled, annoyed at himself for caving in so easily. He just couldn't say no when Clara turned those big eyes on him - he had never been able to. His last regeneration had been even more susceptible to Clara Oswald's charm. At least this time around he seemed to have _some_ ability to resist her. But he still couldn't bring himself to _not_ do everything she asked of him. "Fine. Let's go to your flat."

Clara beamed, and the happiness shining in her eyes was enough to make the Doctor forget his irritation. "Great! Let's get going. And stop giving me those droopy basset hound eyes."

"If anyone has droopy basset hound eyes," the Doctor muttered under his breath, "it's you." But he had the sense not to say so aloud as he followed Clara over to the console. Slowly and methodically, he walked around the console, pushing buttons and inputting coordinates. But as he reached out to pull the final lever, he glanced down at his hands and noticed that they were shaking - either from fear of sickness or from his sickness itself, he didn't know which.

Clara noticed this as well, as he knew she would, because she noticed everything. She stepped nearer to the Doctor and wrapped her slender hands around his larger one, which was hovering in the air over the lever. "Together," she breathed, her breath warm against his cheek, as she helped him pull the lever.

They stepped out into Clara's living room a few moments later, the Doctor being careful to take slow, measured steps so as to avoid another attack of dizziness. Just in case, Clara had one arm slung around his shoulder and another around his waist. She surveyed her living room as they entered it and sighed apologetically. "Sorry about the mess. I was looking for something and I haven't got around to putting all this back yet."

The Doctor grunted, feigning disinterest. Secretly, however, he was delighted. If he ever traded his TARDIS for a house, this is what it would look like: comfortably messy, warm, inviting, lived in. Books were strewn all over the floor, stacked to precarious heights. The coffee table and the sofa were barely visible beneath hordes of items including more books and even some souvenirs from Clara's travels with the Doctor. The Doctor surveyed the living room with satisfaction. Evidently, he and Clara were kindred spirits. Her taste in possessions matched his exactly.

Clara began to lead him to the left. "Where are we going?" the Doctor asked, punctuating the end of his sentence with a cough. "Aren't you putting me on the couch?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, you know. People are always put on the couch when they're sick. It's just... a thing."

There was amusement in Clara's voice as she replied. "Well, it's not a thing in _my_ house. Also, if you hadn't noticed, my sofa is kind of a mess. And I think you're sick enough to get to stay in a proper bed." She nudged open her bedroom door with her foot and guided the Doctor inside, lightly humming a vaguely cheerful tune under her breath. She was clearly happy to have the Doctor around, even if she had to nurse him back to good health.

Since there was no point in protesting, the Doctor allowed himself to be hustled into Clara's bed. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, but the pillows carried the same soothing vanilla fragrance of her hair. Clara was in her element now, bustling around propping up pillows behind him, tucking the covers under his elbows, and, in short, doing everything she could to make him comfortable. The Doctor was not particularly enjoying being babied like this, but he didn't want to offend his best friend, so he bore it patiently with his eyes closed... although he couldn't resist emitting a few weary sighs, which Clara studiously ignored.

When Clara had finished, she stood back and stared thoughtfully at the Doctor. "When I was sick," she told him, "you made me dinner. It's about dinnertime now, but I reckon you don't want a soufflé?" She said this hopefully, like she was hoping he did.

The Doctor's resolution not to offend her did not extend quite that far. "No," he answered hastily. "No, I'll pass, thanks. I don't want to get even sicker." He opened his mouth to sneeze and found that Clara had already pressed a tissue into his hand, as though she had predicted that he would need it. He sneezed into it, cringing - he still wasn't used to this business of being sick.

Clara pursed her lips. "Alright, Mr. Grumpy. No soufflé. I guess I'll call in some takeout in a bit then."

"Italian sounds good," the Doctor offered.

She stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? Nothing else guarantees a stomach upset as certainly as Italian food does, delicious as it is. No, I'll get something else. Speaking of which," she added, somewhat doubtfully, "can you even get an upset stomach? What do you people do when you get sick?"

"I already said, Clara, we rarely get sick!" His nose was beginning to feel stuffy. "Time Lords get sick so rarely, it's something you can usually only read about in books. I have no idea what'll happen to me. I honestly don't know, and I don't like not knowing. So let's find out."

"Guess I should give you some medicine," she mused. "It can't hurt."

"I beg to differ. Overdosage on pills is probably what's given you your questionable height and overly large eyes."

"I'm going to choose to ignore that," Clara answered. "I'm going to get the pills. Stay right there. Don't even think about getting out of bed."

"How will you know if I'm out of bed or not? Have you got a set of giant eyes in the back of your head as well?"

"No, but _you_ will by the time I'm done with you if you don't shut up," came the snarky reply from the bathroom. "Keep quiet." She returned a minute later with two pills cupped in her hand and a glass of water. After the Doctor downed them, she bounced onto the bed, brimming with tireless energy, and gracefully swung her legs over his. Then she wrapped her small hands around his elbow. The Doctor frowned at her. "Why are you sitting next to me? What if you get sick again?"

"Well, I've already had it, haven't I?" Clara countered. "I might not be able to get it again."

"Or you might."

"I'll take that risk,"Clara replied softly, tracing the sharp contours of his bony fingers with her smooth ones. "If it means I can be with you."

He was too touched, and too glad of her company, to protest, so he simply patted her hand.

Their companionable silence lasted for about thirty seconds before the Doctor began to fidget. He discovered, to his annoyance, that his headache was returning. "So what do humans do when they're sick?" he asked, in an effort to distract himself from his illness.

"We take stupid personality quizzes, sleep, and watch bad TV. What do Time Lords do? Oh wait - they don't get sick."

There was a jest hidden in her words, and the Doctor picked up on it. "Yes, Clara, very funny."

"I know," she giggled.

He rolled his eyes. "I don't think you do. So is that really all that humans do when they're sick? No time traveling? No - no poncing about? No fun things?"

"Sorry, Doctor. You're strictly limited to a diet of boredom and bad TV."

Wrinkling his nose, the Doctor leaned against the headboard of the bed and frowned. "Somehow that doesn't sound appetizing."

Clara scanned his apparent misery for a second and decided to take pity on him. "What if I read to you?"

"I would like that," he said slowly. "Yes. That's infinitely better than the alternative."

She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged herself. "Okay. What do you want to read?"

There was a stack of books on the floor by the window; the Doctor quickly perused their titles, but none of them appealed to him. Then his gaze landed on a small book with a black leather cover that was resting on Clara's nightstand. It intrigued him instantly: there was no title; no mark that could possibly give a clue as to what sort of book it was. "That one looks good," he decided, pointing at the mystery book and coughing into his elbow.

He felt Clara stiffen beside him. "... That one? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. What is it?"

"It's... my diary from when I was six," she mumbled, looking down at her clasped hands. "I said earlier that I'd been looking for something. This is it."

"Can I read it?"

"I - it might be embarrassing. Or inappropriate. I don't really remember."

"Well, why did you get it out if you didn't want me to see it?" The Doctor scoffed. "You know I can't resist little black books with no titles."

Clara snorted. "Doctor, I didn't know you were even coming when I got this book out! I don't live under the constant assumption that you're going to be coming to my flat! The universe doesn't revolve around you."

"I know that! Well - I do now," the Doctor added dubiously. "But I'd still like to read that book."

Clara fiddled with her thumbs. "I don't know. I... just wanted to see how I thought when I was six. I wasn't counting on you being here."

"Clara," the Doctor whispered hoarsely, gently sweeping a curl of her hair behind her ear, "is there really anything so terrible that you can't tell me? I want to get to know you better. You're... you're my best friend, and I know so little about your childhood. Please."

She was wavering; he saw it in her eyes. "I shouldn't," she responded hesitantly.

"You should."

"I really shouldn't."

"You really should."

And then Clara looked into the Doctor's eyes, her Doctor's eyes, and saw the sincerity in them, and her uncertainty vanished completely. "I will," she said simply, smiling enough to make her left cheek dent inwards, but not enough to make her whole face light up.

The Doctor handed her the book, and, despite his dislike of close contact, found himself scooting a little closer to his companion. Clara felt the shift in his body, slight as it was, and rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her dark waves of hair to tumble over his strong shoulders. Then she opened the book and began to read, her smooth, broad voice resonating in the Doctor's ears.

It became evident almost immediately that six-year-old Clara Oswald possessed as much grace, intelligence, and strength of mind as present-day Clara did. Once you could decipher the barely legible, six-year-old's messy scrawl, it was clear that she wrote clearly, logically, and with frank honesty. She could also spell unusually well for one so young. No wonder she grew up to become an English teacher!

One entire page was devoted to a list of swear words that Clara had known at that age. Clara blushed so hard at this point that the Doctor honestly thought her head was about to transmute into a tomato (he had seen something similar happen before on the planet Axiron, and it was not a pretty sight).

For the most part, though, Clara's writing was absolutely charming. After a time, Clara simply stopped reading aloud so that she and the Doctor could read silently at their own pace, occasionally pausing to laugh or comment. The Doctor was enjoying himself so much that his sickness barely bothered him.

Two hours later, they reached the last page in the book - a list of Clara's cheating methods for various games, numbered according to how well they worked. The Doctor let out a triumphant laugh. "Ha! You cheater. I knew it. Clara Oswald, I knew it. You're a cheater."

"Oh my stars," she giggled, staring at the book. "I can't believe I actually made this. I could have made money off some of these techniques. This is incredible."

"So you admit to being a cheater."

"Hey, this book is from when I was six. I haven't cheated _recently_."

"What about that game of chess we played on the TARDIS?" he challenged her. "You switched the pieces around when I you thought I wasn't looking."

"Sleight of hand."

"Cheating."

"Semantics," she countered, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Okay, I'm going to get my phone so I can order takeout. Stay here." She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and left.

The Doctor smiled fondly at Clara's retreating figure and then glanced at the diary. He handled it almost reverently; it was a treasure to him, a tangible piece of Clara's childhood. Perhaps he would ask to keep it - a testament to the wit and creativity of the woman he loved.

Something caught the Doctor's eye as he began to close the book. Was that... another page? After checking that Clara wasn't coming back, he flipped to the newly discovered page and started to read. As his eyes scanned the weathered paper, his face grew grimmer and grimmer, sinking into a maze of lines and wrinkles.

 _I saw a man today. I was at the playground and Mummy wasn't there. I was on the swing when I noticed the man. He was watching me from behind a tree. I got up and went to see him and he tried to hide behind the tree, like he wasn't there. But I saw him anyway. He had really curly gray hair, and a big nose, and black clothes. He seemed kind of scary at first, but then I looked into his eyes and saw that he was kind. "Hello," I said._

 _"Hello," he said back. He never looked at my face. He just kept looking at the ground. His voice sounded all weird, all the r's came out curly._

 _"Who are you?" I asked_.

 _"I'm a doctor," he said. But the way he said it sounded like it should be an uppercase D. Doctor._

 _"What kind of Doctor?" I said. Daddy always tells Mummy not to trust doctors, so I thought I should find out if I could trust him or not._

 _The man finally looked up. His eyes were blue and wet. Like there were tears in them that didn't want to come out. "Just a doctor. And not a very good one."_

 _I asked why he wasn't a good doctor, and why he was crying._

 _"I just lost someone," he said. "Someone very important and special. Someone I loved a lot. And I couldn't do anything about it. That's why I'm a bad doctor, and that's why I'm crying."_

 _I asked who he lost but all he said was, "no one you know just yet."_

 _Suddenly he seemed really familiar, like I had seen him before but couldn't quite remember who he was now. I just knew I couldn't let him cry. So I smiled at him and said, "I think whoever you lost has gone to a better place." (That's what they say in church.)_

 _Then the tears came out of his eyes and ran down my cheeks. He took my hand and kissed my forehead and said,"Thank you, Clara Oswald." And then he turned and walked away._

 _It's evening now and all that happened a few hours ago. I'm never ever ever going to tell Mummy and Daddy about it. I don't know who that man was but I hope he feels better now. I wonder who he lost_.

The Doctor's breath hitched. He shakily closed the diary and shoved it away from him, wanting nothing more to do with it. There was no question about it, it was him in that story, him from the future. A sudden weight seemed to press down upon him: the weight of the future; the weight of the sadness that would overtake him if anything happened to his beloved Clara. For it was Clara, he was sure, who was the person that he had just lost in the story. At some point in the future, he would lose Clara, and then go back in time for a final glimpse of his Impossible Girl before he came into her life and eventually destroyed it, like he had destroyed the lives of so many other people. The Doctor's hearts pounded erratically. Clara; his precious Clara; he was going to lose Clara in the future. _No, not her, anyone but her, please_... He swiped a tear from his eye, cursing the burden that all Time Lords were forced to bear of always inevitably finding out how their loved ones would leave them. Now, whenever he looked at Clara, he would remember this seemingly innocent diary entry, and his hearts would well with terror, both for his sanity and her safety.

Of course, Clara chose that very moment to walk into the room. "I found my phone!" she announced triumphantly. "It fell behind the sofa again... what's wrong?" Having caught sight of the look on the Doctor's face, she rushed over and felt his forehead with her hand. "Oh my stars, you're burning up. I'm such an idiot, I'm so sorry, I should have done something about this ages ago... be right back." She ran off to the bathroom.

The Doctor touched a hand to his forehead - he was, indeed, burning up. In his distress, he hadn't even noticed. A wave of sadness crashed over him as he listened to Clara cursing her own stupidity in the bathroom. Should he tell her what he had read, or keep it a secret?

Then the Doctor felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. If Clara was fated to be taken from him, then so be it. But he would fight for her with every fibre of his being. He would do everything in his power to ensure that they stayed together; to ensure her safety. He would do anything to keep her safe from harm. The Doctor would wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly, and he would never let go. If necessary, he would follow her into death itself. Besides, who knew when he would lose her, if he ever did? That moment could be a long ways away. He would travel with her now, and show her the stars, and when the time came for him to let her go, he would hold her tighter than ever. Because that is the meaning of love - love isn't an emotion, it's a promise: a promise to hold tighter when you're supposed to let go; a promise to fight back instead of giving in.

The Doctor resolved not to mention anything to Clara. There was no need for her to worry. So when she reentered the room, with several wet washcloths draped over her shoulder, he pasted a feeble grin onto his face. "Hello again."

Clara leaned over him and carefully pressed the washcloths to his forehead and cheeks, the ends of her hair tickling his eyes. "Do you feel better now?"

"Much. In fact, I'm kind of hungry. Not," he added hastily, in case Clara was getting any ideas, "for home cooking."

"I wasn't going to make anything, as you very well know," she replied indignantly. "I'm ordering Italian."

"But -"

"Yes, I know. I changed my mind."

"I thought you said Italian would upset my stomach."

"It will. But it won't upset mine."

"But..."

"Don't worry, I'm ordering you a salad," Clara assured him. "The place I'm calling has really good salads. They're so good they make you almost start to like salad. Almost."

"Salad?" he demanded, his Scottish burr very loud and very angry. "I don't do salad. Salad is a disgusting invention. One of humanity's most awful achievements. I would rather eat one of your soufflés."

"That can be arranged," Clara said darkly.

He gulped. "Salad is fine."

Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, Clara relented somewhat. "If you're good you can have some of my pasta."

"That sounds much better." He hesitated, and then continued, "Do you need any cash or... something?"

"Sweet of you, but no. I've got this." Clara held up the Doctor's universal credit card with a sly grin on her face.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Nicked it from that 'secret' compartment in the console room. Better hide your stuff a little more carefully, eh?"

"Have you used it before?" he demanded. He couldn't believe her audacity.

"Lots," she replied evilly, winking and scooping her phone out of her pocket. "Keep quiet now. I'm going to be on the phone. I don't want to have to listen to your voice in the background."

"What's wrong with my voice?" His voice came out as a harsh croak.

"Well, what with the congestion and the accent, I practically need subtitles to understand you."

"Are you kidding?" The Doctor snorted. "I've needed subtitles to understand you for years."

"Excuse me, my voice is gorgeous. Just as gorgeous as my face. Now hush up." Clara stuck her tongue out at him and turned away. "Hello? Hi, can I place an order?"

As a barely audible voice answered, the Doctor, bored, cast around for something to do, mainly to distract himself from his headache. He caught sight of Clare's alarm clock, a heavy piece of metal with a digital front. The idea of Clara owning such a device amused him, since she had a blatant disregard for waking up on time and if she was ever late to something, she just said, "Queens are never late. Everyone else is simply early." With these words of wisdom ringing in his mind, making him smirk, the Doctor picked up the clock and promptly dropped it. It struck the bedside table with an abnormally loud clatter.

The silence that followed, as Clara stared at him in disbelief, was so absolute that the Doctor distinctly heard the man on the phone asking, "Ma'am, are you alright?"

"Fine, thanks," Clara answered, coming back to her senses after shooting the Doctor a glare of death. "My friend over here is just being an idiot..."

The Doctor gulped loudly and quickly buried his face in the wet cloths so that he didn't have to face his companion, pretending to muffle a sneeze. When he chanced a peek at his companion, she looked like she was about to explode with rage. Her face was all red and tomato-y and she looked like she was refraining from screaming at the unfortunate man on the phone with very great difficulty. "I said salad number thirteen," she repeated in a scarily calm voice. "Not three. Not twenty three. Not even thirty-three. Thirteen."

The Doctor trusted her to order a salad that she knew he would like, so he kept his mouth shut. His heart went out to the poor pudding-brain over the line, though. Evidently he had misheard Clara not once, but three times. And the Doctor knew very well how potentially dangerous it could be to mishear her at all. For such a tiny woman, she was remarkably feisty.

"Yes, that'll be everything," Clara was saying, pacing the room as she normally did while talking on the phone. "Yes."

"Did you order a pizza?" the Doctor asked.

"I said not to talk to me!"

"Did you?"

"Yes!" she hissed.

"And what about the churros? You can't have Italian without churros."

"Churros are Mexican," she whispered dangerously. "I think you mean cannoli."

"Same difference. Those little wrapped up things. Did you get any?"

" _No_."

"What about -"

"Doctor, shut up!" Clara threw her hands in the air in annoyance and accidentally sent her phone flying. It hit the wall with a crack.

"Ma'am!" the person who had taken her order shouted. "Ma'am, are you sure everything's alright?"

Clara dived across the room, grabbed the phone, and quickly gabbled something into it. "Yes, everything's great, thanks, keep your hair on, be here as soon as you can and bye." She quickly ended the call and turned to face the Doctor. "What," she demanded, her arms crossed, "was that?"

Various excuses presented themselves to him, and the Doctor chose the one that he knew was certain to make Clara relent. That was one of the things he had learned about Clara Oswald: exactly how to manipulate her, exactly how to make her give in. He had her wrapped around his little finger.

But not quite as much as she had him wrapped around hers.

"I'm sick," the Doctor protested innocently, spreading his arms. "It's muddling my brain."

Sure enough, Clara's eyes softened instantly. "You idiot," she said affectionately, smoothing back his curly hair. "Okay, I'll let it go. But as soon as you're feeling better, I'm giving you some more lessons in earth etiquette. Lesson number one: don't talk to people when they're on the phone."

"I can hardly wait," the Doctor continued dryly, in a tone that implied the exact opposite.

"Lesson number _two_ ," Clara continued, winking as she peeled the wet cloths off his face and wiped away some droplets of moisture, "Always make your guests tea." With that she turned around and left the bedroom. The Doctor's eyes crinkled as he smiled fondly, his gaze riveted on the little spring in her step that she always executed unconsciously. It marked her as a bubbly, bright, cheerful person, which couldn't be more true.

She came back a few minutes later, bearing two mugs of steaming hot tea. "Drink up," she ordered, placing one of the mugs on the Doctor's lap and wrapping his fingers around it.

The Doctor eyes it wearily. "Is it going to poison me?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "No. Just because I can't make a decent soufflé doesn't mean I can't make tea. It has all sorts of good herbs and whatnot. It should make you feel better."

The Doctor suddenly broke out in a coughing fit. Looking concerned, Clara set down her mug and slipped her slim hands around his back, rubbing it sympathetically and holding him as he choked and hacked. Finally the tickle in his throat died and he looked up at his companion, sniffling pathetically. Clara tilted her head, regarding him with sadness and pity. Suddenly she leaned in and enfolded her arms around his neck, resting the side of her head against his lined cheek. "There," she murmured softly. "See? A good hug can make anything better." As the Doctor felt her single strong heartbeat pounding against his chest, he had to agree.

Clara pulled away and tapped his nose. "Now drink up. The tea will make your throat less sore. I think."

That wasn't particularly reassuring, but the Doctor followed her advice anyway, arching his eyebrows in doubt. He took a large gulp of the tea and instantly broke out into another coughing fit. His tongue felt like it was on fire. "Hot, hot, hot," he croaked. "Never again - you're trying to kill me-"

Clara seemed torn between amusement and exasperation. "Doctor, it's hot tea! You can't take such large sips; you'll burn yourself. I thought that would have been obvious."

His eyes were streaming, and he was panting too hard to answer, so Clara decided to take pity on him. She brought him a glass of cold water, which worked wonders. The Doctor's tongue was soon back to normal again. "Try again," Clara encouraged him. "And how about a small sip this time."

He warily obeyed her instructions. To his surprise, the tea was actually... good. It was the perfect blend of sweet and tangy. Just holding the mug seemed to make his sickness swirl away in a cloud of steam - he could practically feel his nose drying up and his headache receding. "You _can_ make tea," he conceded with surprise. "Probably the only thing you can make. But still. It's good."

Clara slowly sipped her tea, her liquid eyes watching the Doctor over the rim of her cup. "For your information," she began, "I can also make -"

And then the doorbell rang.

"That would be the 'churros'," Clara commented wryly. "I'll be right back, hang on." She flicked on the bedside lamp, casting a warm circle of light into the Doctor's face. Her breath hitched a little as the light hit his skin: he suddenly looked handsome, strong, and powerful, with light crisscrossing the web of faint lines that covered his face, casting part of it into deep shadow. A fierce love welled in her heart.

The Doctor frowned at her; she looked about to say something. But then she shook herself and turned away. "Erm," she mumbled. "Okay. Right back." She slipped through the doorway and left the room, her footsteps seeming slightly unsteady.

The Doctor stared after her in bewilderment. Clara was very odd sometimes.

She returned a few minutes later balancing a pizza box and a container that was presumably full of salad. She tossed the Doctor his universal credit card with a proud smile on her face. "There you go. Thanks for not noticing when I stole it."

"How much did you tip?" the Doctor asked warily.

"You don't want to know," she replied mischievously. "Let's just say it made the delivery guy really happy." Clara dragged a chair over to the Doctor's bedside and arranged the food on it. "I'm trusting you not to spill," she told him firmly, "but if you do, I'll have to get you a bib. So don't spill."

The Doctor flipped open the plastic container. It was, indeed, full of salad. Clara's meal looked much more appetizing: margherita pizza decorated with a ring of fresh basil leaves. She caught him eyeing it sadly and laughed. "If you eat all your salad I'll give you some pizza."

"Why aren't you having salad?" the Doctor demanded crossly. "Didn't you hear that spinach makes you grow tall and strong? Lord knows you could do with some more height."

"My height is fine how it is, thanks very much! And besides, I'm not sick. You are, so I'm trying to make you eat healthy."

"Poppycock," the Doctor grunted, unenthusiastically swirling his fork around in his salad.

"Just try it," Clara pleaded. "It's not bad, really."

Of course, she was right. Again. This salad was done to perfection. Not that he would ever tell Clara that; she didn't need to get a big head. Well, she didn't need to get a bigger head than she had already. "It's not very good," the Doctor complained, lying through his teeth. "I can't -"

Suddenly, to his immense horror, the Doctor felt a trail of snot descending from his nose. He hastily reached for the tissue box and firmly stuffed two of the tissues up his nose.

Clara took one look at him and burst out laughing. "Oh my stars, you look like an elephant."

"I'm glad to see," the Doctor said in a dignified voice, made hilariously nasal by the presence of the tissues, "that my being sick is such an occasion for hilarity."

Clara's laughter subsided. "Sorry, I shouldn't be laughing. But -"

"Don't," the Doctor warned. "Not another word, Clara Oswald."

Biting her lip to repress more giggles, Clara glanced down at her pizza.

Their dinner passed in a companionable silence. The Doctor was relieved that he could still taste. Clara, impressed that he'd finished his salad without further complaint, allowed him two slices of pizza.

Finally they finished eating and Clara cleared all of the dishes. The Doctor passed a weary hand over his eyes, feeling tiredness overcome him.

Clara's sharp eyes caught the motion. "Bedtime," she ordered, clapping her hands. "You won't get better unless you rest."

The Doctor sighed. He'd known the moment was coming when he's have to say goodbye to Clara, but he had been delaying it as long as possible. "Can you help me get to the TARDIS, then?" he asked reluctantly, stretching out a hand.

Clara stared at him incredulously. It was the look she gave him when he was being oblivious, and the Doctor thought that perhaps he was missing the obvious. "Erm..." he cleared his throat uncertainly, "The TARDIS is still here, right? She hasn't... left, or anything?"

"No, she's still here." Clara sat down on the bed and took one of the Doctor's hands, squeezing it tightly. "But do you honestly think I would let you leave? You're staying right here in my bed until you're feeling better."

The Doctor suddenly felt ridiculously happy. He had just been given a few more days with his best friend! "Yes ma'am," he answered, barely suppressing a grin from breaking out across his lips.

Clara removed the tissues from his nose and tossed them into the bin. "Now stay here while I get ready for bed. Doctor's orders."

"Perhaps," the Doctor murmured, his voice low and murmured, "perhaps that's what I've needed all along. I've been poncing around the universe, taking care of everyone, with no one to take care of me when I needed it. No one to remind me why I kept taking care of the universe. No one to remind me why I took on the name 'Doctor'. Clara, I've needed a real doctor for so many years, countless years. I needed you. I still need you." He paused, savoring the words he was about to say, and then added, "I need a Doctor."

Clara smiled lovingly and brushed a wayward silver curl behind his ears. "You've got one," she murmured softly, her eyes moist. "Oh, Doctor, you've got one."

The Doctor rested his cheek against her hand, and his eyes drifted shut. He was so tired...

The Doctor's eyes popped open. The lights in Clara's bedroom were off; it was lit only by moonlight now. His nose still felt stuffy, and his throat hurt, but his headache was gone. He was lying down on Clara's bed, facing the ceiling. Clara was curled up next to him, watching him silently. Moonlight glinted in her eyes and on her face, tracing a shimmery pattern on the square tip of her nose. "You're awake," she breathed drowsily. "You dozed off fifteen minutes ago."

The Doctor said nothing. He had never been this close to his companion before - her hair was resting on his cheeks and her arm was thrown across his chest - and he was rather enjoying the sensation. He began to absently trace a pattern on Clara's bed sheets, drawing large sweeping circles and lines with his fingers.

"What's that?" Clara inquired sleepily when he had finished. Her eyes were now half shut.

The Doctor realized, with some surprise, that he had unconsciously written "I love you" in Gallifreyan. "Nothing," he answered, passing a hand over his drawing to erase it. "I'll tell you later." And he would. He would tell her. Someday he would work up the courage to take her in his arms and say those words.

But not yet.

He could destroy his own people, he could topple civilizations, he could condemn himself to death; but he couldn't figure out how to express his love.

Clara was too sleepy to argue. She buried her head in his waistcoat. "You should really get pajamas," she mumbled.

"I've got pajamas," he whispered back. "They're just -"

But she was already asleep. A peaceful smile flickered on her lips as she unconsciously curled her hands around the fabric of the Doctor's shirt. The Doctor stroked her hair and reached for her hand, running his fingers over her knuckles. "My Clara," he murmured in a choked voice.

Perhaps... just perhaps... if this was what getting sick was like, he would try to get sick more often.

L **et me know what you think. I sincerely hope it was wonderful. See you next time. And for those of my American readers, have a great rest of your three day weekend!**


	23. Chapter 23: Breakfast in Bed

**This chapter was very rushed because I wrote it while I was on vacation, again. Oh well. Hope you like it anyway. Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

 **Prompt from BADWOLF1221: "CIBLOFFIT"**

There was a voice in her dream.

Clara was lying on the ground, staring at a far-off ceiling, and there was a voice calling her, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It was repeating her name over and over. "Clara... Clara... Clara..."

And then it changed into a very loud, very brusque, and very Scottish voice which declared, "Clara Oswald, I will roll you out of your bed if you don't get out right now."

She cracked her eyelids open. That first voice, the one in her dream, had that belonged to the Doctor as well? She hadn't known that his voice could be so soft.

"I will find all your ticklish spots," the Doctor threatened. "Every one. Get up."

That was more like the Doctor she knew. Clara stirred and rubbed her eyes, squinting at the dark, spindly figure hunched over her. Her bedroom on the TARDIS was dark, but light seeped through the door, which had been left a crack open, casting a faint golden sheen on the Doctor's silver curls. "No," she murmured sleepily, deciding that her beauty sleep took precedence over whatever he wanted. "Go away."

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Clara. I need you for a thing!"

"I don't care," she muttered, turning away. "I'll help you later."

The Doctor leaned over her, his warm breath tickling her ears. "Later is too late," he complained. "It even has the word 'late' in it."

Clara tried to drift off to sleep, but found, to her annoyance, that this was now impossible. "What time is it anyway?" she asked blearily, curling her knees up to her stomach beneath the covers.

There was a pause. "... In Earth time?" the Doctor finally answered.

She eyes him suspiciously beneath half-closed lids. "Yes, Earth time."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Well. That's a little hard to calculate, since there's really no concept of time on the TARDIS -"

"Just tell me."

"4:21."

"A.M.?!"

"I think so," the Doctor admitted, looking remarkably like a child despite his lined face as he shuffled around and fidgeted guiltily.

"Let me get this straight," Clara said, still not deigning to face him. "You woke me up at 4:21 A.M. A. M. As in, in the morning."

"Well, when you put it like that -"

"There is no other way to put it," she cut him off flatly, wrapping her pillow around her head and firmly holding it in place. "I'm going back to sleep. Good night." Her voice was slightly muffled by the pillow.

The Doctor hesitated, internally wrestling with himself. "I'll give you something if you come," he whispered in Clara's ear, listening to her even breathing and watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

He knew his companion well enough to know that she was interested. Although the tempo of her breathing didn't change, Clara's body language told him that she was waiting to hear more. "Breakfast in bed," he promised. "And. And, and, and. Shoes!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I'll buy you a pair of shoes. Er, two pairs. And some other silly pointless human thing. Flowers." He spread his hand over Clara's shoulder, tracing his thin fingers over the smooth skin between her neck and cheek. "Please?"

"I also want a full spa, manicure, and pedicure."

The Doctor threw his hands up in exasperation. "What is it with these spa things?" he growled. "Isn't two pairs of shoes and breakfast in bed enough?"

Clara yawned exaggeratedly and burrowed deeper beneath her covers. "Too bad, looks like I won't be coming with you then..."

"Okay, okay," the Doctor added hastily. "You can have your spa. Is it a deal?"

Although he couldn't see it, a small smile twitched on Clara's lips, deepening the dimple in her cheek. "Done," she agreed.

The Doctor released an audible sigh of relief. He slid off Clara's bed, his lanky body towering over her prone form, and reached over to turn on the lights.

"Oh my God," Clara shouted as the light seared itself onto her unaccustomed eyes. Swearing loudly, she dove beneath the covers, her vision pulsing with spots. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Language, Clara!" the Doctor chided her, hastily dimming the lights. "Why are you hiding under the covers?"

"Hmm, let's think about that," Clara shot back. "Firstly, because you just bloody exploded my vision. And secondly, I'm not decent."

"You're not?" the Doctor asked, confused. "In what way?"

Two angry brown eyes peered over the covers, boring into his very soul. "I refuse to answer that question."

He scoffed, holding his hands up in surrender. "Well, sorry. I'm not accustomed to human sleeping habits. Also, your hair looks like something's been nesting in it." This was true. Apart from having dark bags under her slightly bloodshot eyes, Clara's hair looked like it had become home to a family of rats.

She sighed. "Thanks for that."

She began to slide the covers off, and the Doctor hastily turned around. "I thought you said you weren't decent."

"And then I decided it doesn't really matter. After all, you've met millions of my echoes. Who knows - you might have seen them in the bath or something."

The Doctor's face flushed, and he raised a hand to his ear - something Clara knew that he did when he was nervous. "I think I would remember that."

"My, my," Clara hummed, her eyes gleaming, coming up behind and wrapping her arms around him so that she was leaning against his back. "Was that a compliment?"

The Doctor blushed harder. He didn't know how to handle Clara when she got in these flirtatious moods. "Yes," he said abruptly. "I mean no. Maybe. I don't know. It was a way to get you to stop talking, but it evidently didn't work." Clara made no response, only pressing her head against his back. "Can I... turn around then?" he inquired hoarsely.

"Yes." Clara grabbed his hand. "I'm not really that indecent. It's just my sleeping clothes."

This was true. Her white pants were loose and baggy, and her brown tank top had perhaps a lower neckline than necessary, but there was nothing really indecent there. "Appropriate enough for you?" Clara teased.

"You look beautiful," the Doctor answered simply. Despite the rats'-nest hair and tired eyes, Clara looked beautiful. She always did. And this morning in particular, she was too beautiful for him to not tell her.

She appeared taken aback. "Thank you."

The Doctor suddenly remembered himself and cleared his throat gruffly. "Anyway. Things to do." He started for the door. "So, here's the -" He stopped, suddenly realizing that Clara wasn't following him. Glancing behind, he noted that her arms were wrapped around her chest and she was trembling slightly. What was that trembling? Why was she hugging herself? "Are you alright?" the Doctor demanded, rushing back to her. "You're not sick again, are you?"

"No, it's called shivering. I just realized how cold it was. Oh my stars, it's freezing in here. Don't you have a central heating system?"

"Maybe. I haven't discovered it yet if there is one." The Doctor hesitated. "But there is something else I can do." He slipped his velvety coat off of his shoulders and draped it over Clara's, smoothing her tumbling brown hair out of the way. "There. Better?"

"Much," she said gratefully, leaning against his shoulder and giving it a quick kiss. "Thanks, Doctor."

Clara looked comically small beneath the Doctor's coat; the bottom reached past her thighs and the sleeves covered her hands. The Doctor felt a surge of protectiveness for his petite companion. He felt around in the sleeve for her hand and grasped it gently, drawing her out of her bedroom. "Come on." Clara followed him, stumbling slightly on the hem of her pajama bottoms as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

They soon reached the console room, which seemed cold and silent in the early-morning calm. The Doctor dropped Clara's hands and ran into the room, spinning around in a circle with his hands outstretched. "Good morning, Sexy!" he bellowed. "Ready to get your wiring fixed?"

Suddenly Clara was wide awake, both because the Doctor had called the snogbox 'sexy', and because he was going to fix the wiring. "Doctor," she called, "please don't tell me you woke me up at 4:21 to fix the bloody wiring."

His guilty silence told her everything she needed to know. "Doctor! I don't even know how to fix wiring!"

"Oh, you don't have to fix it," the Doctor replied, already crouching down near the console. "I just need you to stand there and hold things and fetch me the occasional banana or bag of chips."

"So you woke me up so I could be some kind of - of caddy," Clara snapped, unimpressed.

"Basically." He fumbled for his sonic screwdriver and scanned a panel in the console, which instantly popped open to reveal a coiled set of multicolored wires.

"My breakfast in bed had better be really gourmet," Clara muttered, wrapping his coat tighter around herself.

The Doctor grunted and stuck his head into the hole in the console, simultaneously snapping on a pair of thick gloves that he'd found in his pants pocket. Sparks flew from the wires, and despite her irritation, Clara felt a pang of worry. She hoped he knew what he was doing. He wrenched out a blue wire, which fizzed dramatically, and thrust it at her. "Hold this."

Clara eyed it uncertainly. "Is that a live wire?"

"It's not hurting _me_ , is it?"

"You've got gloves," she pointed out.

"Oh, right," the Doctor remembered. "Well, it could be live. I don't really know."

She scooted backwards. "I think I'll pass."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm joking. It's not live. Honestly, Clara, do you think I'd be so careless as to give you a live wire?"

She opened her mouth to say yes, and instead found herself saying, "No, of course not." And even as she said the words, she knew they were the truth.

The Doctor nodded in satisfaction. "There you go. I've got a duty of care. I'm not going to mess it up."

"But you've messed it up before," Clara responded, and instantly regretted the words. She tried with horror to stop herself from talking, but the next words rose in her throat anyway and she couldn't stop them from emerging. "All the people who came before me. They're gone now."

The Doctor's shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked so ancient and broken that Clara felt her heart throb with pity, and tears welled in her eyes. "I know," he murmured hoarsely, his voice raw and fractured. "I know. I failed them. I had a duty of care for them too, for all of them, and I let them slip through my fingers." Then he looked up to meet his companion's gaze, his eyes brimming with sudden determination. "But not you," he continued fiercely. "Never you, Clara Oswald. I'm not letting you leave me."

She nodded, a lump in her throat. "I'm not going anywhere," she managed.

The Doctor's piercing blue eyes bored into her warm brown ones as he nodded. "I know you won't," he whispered, so softly that Clara barely heard it. "I know."

And then he abruptly turned back to his work, leaving no doubt that the conversation was over.

Clara watched the Doctor very carefully for the next few minutes, gauging his emotions while trying to act like she wasn't watching him at all. His eyes seemed slightly wetter than normal, but that was the only sign he gave of his internal misery.

But then she heard a word that put all thoughts of trying to comfort him out of her mind.

It was a swear word, a very, very bad one, and it had been uttered by none other than the Doctor.

Clara stared at him in shocked surprise that was tinged with both horror and amusement. In all the many years that she had known the Doctor, he had never used a single swear word. Not one.

He was carrying on like nothing had happened. "Erm -" Clara hesitantly cleared her throat - "what did you just say, Doctor?"

"What did you hear?" he countered, deftly welding a blue wire and a coppery one together.

"Well - it sounded like - a swear word."

The tips of his ears reddened. "Nonsense. I used the word 'cibloffit'. It's a word used on the planet Axetron when something goes wrong. It's sort of like 'oops'."

"I don't think it is, Doctor," Clara said, somewhat apologetically. "It certainly sounded like ( **the following word has been deleted due to its extremely rude and inappropriate nature** )."

The Doctor jumped guiltily. "What? I don't swear! That's not what it means at all."

"Doctor, the TARDIS translates everything," Clara fired back, suddenly confident. "So don't lie. She translated cib - whatever you said to, well, that."

He sagged. "You caught me."

"Why did you lie?" she demanded. "I'm a big girl. I can handle bad words."

"I was trying to protect your ears," he muttered. "That's all. I just forgot the TARDIS was going to translate it anyway."

"I don't need babying."

"You do to me. Think how young you are compared to me."

"But why did you swear in the first place?"

"I didn't mean to," he grumbled, fiddling idly with some wires. "It just slipped out. I accidentally snapped a wire."

"Cibloffit," Clara mused aloud, just to have the satisfaction of watching the Doctor cringe. "I'll have to add that to my arsenal of bad words. And weren't you just telling me not to use bad language this morning?" Her eyes were twinkling roguishly.

The tips of the Doctor's ears were still red, and his cheeks were tinged with a blush. "That was different," he protested.

"It was not. And hey - breakfast in bed. Come on, Mister." She crooked his finger.

"I'm not done yet."

"Yes you are. I just saw those little green lights by your finger turn on as you connected those wires, and then the TARDIS's engines hummed, which means she's happy. So you've just finished fixing her."

"You never miss a thing, do you," the Doctor sighed, extracting himself and resealing the panel.

"Who, me? Of course not! But _you_ are apparently missing the fact that it's time to make me breakfast."

The Doctor got to his feet. "Fine. Come help me find the kitchens."

"I don't think so," Clara snorted. "I'm going back to bed. Come wake me up when you're done." She winked slyly and marched back down the corridor, still wearing the Doctor's coat.

"You forgot to give me my coat," the Doctor called after her.

"I didn't forget," she answered mischievously as she rounded the corner. "I'm just not giving it back. It's mine now."

A rueful chuckle sprang to the Doctor's lips. "The sacrifices I make for you..." he breathed softly.

Four hours later, the Doctor kicked open Clara's room door, his fingers splayed out beneath a red tray. True to her word, she was fast asleep again, her mouth hanging open. Soft snores were emanating from it.

The Doctor flipped on the lights and then hastily dimmed them - he didn't want a repeat of earlier that morning. He smirked at her open-mouthed state of sleep and perched on her pillow. He tapped her nose with his knuckle, still balancing the tray on his other palm. "Clara. Breakfast."

She cracked an eyelid open. "Oh. Hi again." Yawning massively, she propped herself up on her pillows and stared blearily at the breakfast. "Wow. It _does_ look gourmet."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "It better be. It took four hours to make." There was a plate of potatoes and some white mass that looked like eggs, next to another plate that held a stack of pancakes. Clara grinned as she noticed that the top pancake had a lopsided smiley face etched into it. The Doctor had also provided a glass of apple juice. She was touched by how much effort he had put into making her happy. She flicked her eyes upwards, preparing to thank him, but the words diet on her lips. "What happened to you?" she finally managed, suddenly wide awake.

"Breakfast happened," the Doctor grumbled, resentfully indicating his jacket, which was covered in bits of egg. His face was white with flour. "I tried to sonic the eggs to make them finish faster but they exploded." He prodded the eggs on the plate, revealing a burnt and blackened underside. "I don't know if I'd recommend eating those, but I thought I would bring them just in case."

Clara giggled and swiped some of the flour off his cheeks. "Thank you all the same," she told him sincerely. "It looks good."

The Doctor settled the plate on her lap. "Go ahead," he murmured, his Scottish accent warm and gentle. "I'll stay with you."

Clara carved out a bite of pancake and placed it in her mouth. Hints of syrup and butter flooded her tongue, along with the taste of pancake. The Doctor had somehow figured out how to put them inside the pancake. "This is delicious!" she exclaimed. "Oh my stars, you need to come and work in my kitchen."

The Doctor beamed proudly and reached his hands up to his throat. But all of a sudden his smile vanished and he lowered his hands, looking troubled and a little wistful.

Clara's sharp eyes picked up on his motion. It was a very familiar one - he had done it all the time, once, reaching up to proudly adjust his bowtie whenever Clara complimented him. But he was different now; there was no more bowtie.

Her eyes softened. Now she knew that the Doctor missed his last regeneration as much as she did. So she reached out and straightened his collar instead, pausing to gaze into his eyes. "There's always a bowtie there," she murmured softly. "And there always will be."

"I know," the Doctor sighed.

"But..." Clara patted his cheek. "For the record, I think black waistcoats are very handsome."

His mouth flickered in a smile. "Good to know."

Clara winked at him as she settled back against her pillow. "Now stop talking. I'm trying to eat."

"Hey!" The Doctor frowned indignantly, his hedgy eyebrows drawing together. "You were talking first."

As Clara ate her pancakes, the Doctor began to regale amusing stories of his youth to her. Clara loved the way he talked, pouring his whole body into his stories, using his arms and fingers expressively to illustrate his words. "... And they told me to leave," he finished. "I mean, can you believe that? All that time and effort I poured into saving their silly little planet, and they just kicked me out."

"You know what you tell people like that?" Clara asked, smirking a little.

"What?"

"Tell them to go cibloffit themselves."

The dumbstruck expression on his face stayed with her for the rest of her life.

 **If any of you are wondering, the kitchen the Doctor used was the one from way back in chapter 9. There were leftover ingredients in there from Clara's soufflé experiment.**

 **Thanks for reading! Please review, I love to hear your opinions, and have a nice Sunday.**


	24. Chapter 24: Memories

**I am a tiny bit proud of this chapter.**

 **Just saying.**

 **That being said, I now have to tell you that I won't be posting for another month or so because I'm going to host a foreign exchange student. So this will be the last chapter for a while. You better enjoy it!**

 **When I am back from my hiatus, I'll post the thank-you-for-fifty-reviews chapter that I'm only just getting around to. After that, I have two more guest prompts. Just so you all know my plan.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

 **Prompt from BafWolf1221: GLASS**

The box toppled off the shelf directly onto Clara's head, knocking her to the floor.

Clara let out an involuntary 'oof' as the box tumbled onto her stomach, taking her breath away. She struggled beneath its weight for a few seconds before managing to roll out from underneath it and sit up. Disgruntled, she patted her hair back into place and eyed the offending box suspiciously. "What's in you?" she asked it. "You're so heavy."

Great. Now she was talking to inanimate objects. She was too used to having the Doctor to talk to. Now she couldn't adjust to having no one.

The Doctor had dropped Clara off earlier that morning at her flat, offering the rubbish excuse that he wanted to explore a planet where women were prohibited (what sort of stupid planet _that_ was, Clara didn't know.) He had also said that she needed to learn how to clean her flat so that she could clean his TARDIS when he came back to pick her up. Which was an incredibly sexist request.

Not that Clara minded. She would happily clean his snogbox for him if he would just tell her what was wrong.

Because something was definitely wrong with the Doctor. Clara could tell just by looking at him. He wasn't his usual grumpy self - in fact, he had actually been properly polite the day before, which was odd. Apart from that, his voice was softer than usual, and something glinted in his eyes whenever he looked at Clara. Something lonely and sad. Something scary.

Clara felt a pang of fear. The Doctor had left her behind; he was on his own now. And he was dangerous when he was on his own. "Lord knows what he's doing," she murmured to herself. "Probably on his way to destroying the universe by now."

A wave of homesickness surged in her chest as she thought of the TARDIS, and her throat constricted. Yes, homesickness. This cold, dusty flat wasn't Clara's home anymore. No, Clara's home was on the TARDIS. Clara's home was where the Doctor was.

And he had left her behind. Abandoned her. Flown away. Would he even come back?

Clara sighed, her eyes unfocused and far away. Whatever was bothering the Doctor, she hoped that he would tell her soon. She knew that she could help.

A telltale lump rose in Clara's throat, and she quickly forced it down before tears could well in her eyes. "Get a grip on yourself," she chided herself. "You know he'll come back."

Feeling a little better, Clara briskly dragged the box towards her to examine its contents. She'd decided to start her cleaning by going through all the boxes in her flat that she'd never bothered unpacking. And there were plenty: there were boxes in the kitchen, in the laundry room, in all the closets, even under her bed. She'd already sorted through all of the ones in the kitchen, which had contained nothing more interesting than some old utensils and cookbooks. One of them, a French recipe book, had a list in the back of all the times Clara had tried to make the various recipes. Each entry was a variation of "Burned", "Collapsed", or some other calamity. The last item on the list read, "Vanilla soufflé: made it perfectly and then dropped it on the floor. I hate my life."

The box that had fallen on her head was from Clara's bedroom closet. She forced the top open and discovered that it was full of her childhood coloring books. "Why do I even have these?" she demanded aloud, shoving the box away. "So embarrassing."

She stood up, brushing dust off her face, and reached for the next box. Gritting with exertion, she managed to pull it down without killing herself, coughing and choking as dust swirled through the air. These boxes hadn't seen the light of day in far too long.

Settling herself cross-legged on the floor, Clara opened the box... and gasped.

The lump in her throat that she had suppressed earlier rose again, and tears pooled in her eyes.

This box was full of stacks and stacks of pictures. But not just any old pictures. Pictures of her and the Doctor.

Her first Doctor.

With trembling fingers, Clara gathered the first stack of pictures and settled it on her lap. Her breath hitched. There he was, that clumsy, careless, bowtie-wearing idiot with the big green eyes that had made her fall in love with him instantaneously. There was his wide, boyish smile; his floppy hair; his ridiculous tweed. In this picture he was carrying Clara on his back, and they were both laughing at the camera. She remembered that day, the sweetness of his touch, the warmth of his fingers on hers.

A tear splashed on the carpet as she scanned the rest of the pictures. They they were again, holding hands and facing away from the camera. Watching a sunset on the planet Tridon. Throwing cake at each other. The Doctor cringing as Clara placed a freshly-baked soufflé in front of him. The two of them standing with their noses pressed together, almost kissing, but not quite...

Suddenly overcome with sadness, Clara dropped the pictures back inside the box and firmly sealed it back up, her eyes blinded by moisture. She knew she was being silly. Yes, her first Doctor was gone. But her Doctor was still here, her wonderful, beautiful Time Lord. She couldn't reminisce about his last regeneration anymore. She had a new Doctor to worry about.

Clara's movements were slow and subdued as she collected the next box and laid it on the ground. This one was full of breakables: vases, mirrors, various other antiques.

Clara recognized them all as members of her mum's personal collection. As she realized this, she felt dangerously close to crying again.

This cleaning thing was turning out to be a really bad idea.

"Getting all maudlin," Clara grumbled to herself. "The Doctor would laugh to see me right now."

"I'm not laughing," a quiet voice answered from the corner.

Clara shrieked and whirled around, very painfully dropping the box on her feet. "Oh my stars! What do you think you're doing?" she shouted, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the pain in them.

"Watching you," the Doctor answered, stepping out of the shadows. His curly gray hair gleamed in the light from outside, and he looked dapper as usual in his velvety coat. But his eyes were red and bloodshot.

Had he been crying too?

All of a sudden Clara didn't care. She had just remembered why she was in her flat in the first place. "You left me," she told the Doctor, her voice far steadier than she felt. "You dropped me off and left."

"I came back," the Doctor whispered, his Scottish accent low and subdued.

"Why - you couldn't stay away?" The words came out far harsher than she intended.

The Doctor hung his head. "No, actually, I couldn't. I... I can't stay away from you for long, Clara. I can't. I didn't go to that planet. I couldn't leave you."

Clara found herself growing irrationally angry, despite her relief that the Doctor had come back for her. "Would you care to tell me why you dropped me off in the first place?" she asked in a clipped tone. "Because I don't think it was so you could go to a planet. I think there's something you're not telling me." Her voice softened. "Doctor, please tell me, I can help, I can - ow!" Her finger was suddenly pulsing with pain.

For a moment Clara couldn't understand what she was seeing. Her finger was dripping with blood. She marveled at the sight of it. How was that possible?

Then she remembered. She wasn't invincible. She wasn't like the Doctor. She was fragile, and weak, and easily wounded. It was easy to forget, when you traveled with him, that you could still be injured.

Suddenly a warm hand slipped into her own, turning her hand so that the light caught the thin webs of skin between her fingers. "That looks bad," the Doctor murmured. Her index finger had been gashed from end to end, and blood was rapidly pooling beneath it on the floor.

Clara felt sick at the sight of her own blood; she hadn't seen it in such a long time. "I'm fine," she promised, forcing a chuckle. "There was glass in that box I was holding. Something must have had a sharp edge. I'll just go get a Band Aid -"

"No," the Doctor growled. The intensity in his voice sent a shiver up Clara's spine. "No, you won't."

And he began to stroke the cut.

Clara quickly realized what he was doing. "No, Doctor, stop it," she croaked, ineffectually pounding his chest. "Don't you dare."

But it was too late. Shimmery golden light seeped from beneath the Doctor's fingers, rippling around the injury. When he removed his hand, the wound was gone. His face was pale and haggard, and the lines on his forehead seemed deeper than usual.

"How many years was that?" Clara demanded thinly.

The Doctor shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care. You're better now."

Seized by a sudden impulse, Clara gripped his hands and leaned closer to him. "Doctor, don't you ever waste your regeneration energy on me again! It's not worth it. _I'm_ not worth it. How many years did you just lose - five? Ten? Doctor, your time is too precious to waste on me!"

His eyes flashed. "Clara, nothing is too precious to waste on you! Nothing at all! Not a thing in the whole damn universe!"

Silence hung over her bedroom. Clara stared at the Doctor, shock and awe stamped on her features. She had never heard him swear like that before.

"You're not a waste, Clara," the Doctor continued in a softer voice, pressing a tender kiss to her hand. "I would rather die today knowing that you're alive and well than live a hundred more years with no idea. You're all that keeps me going."

And then, for once, he initiated the hug.

The Doctor pulled her close, his hands buried in Clara's thick dark hair. His movements were awkward and he actually stepped on her foot, but Clara let it pass. She knew how abnormal hugging was for him in this regeneration. So she pressed her face into his jacket and hugged back, breathing in his comforting scent. "Thank you," she breathed.

The Doctor pulled back far quicker than she would have liked. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, already back to his normal, grumpy self. "Erm. Well. Okay." He glanced at the carpet, on which several drops of blood were scattered. He fished his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket and pointed it at the floor. As it began to buzz, the blood rippled and vanished into nothingness. "Absorber setting," the Doctor explained, pocketing the device. "Works on everything except grape juice. Don't ask."

Clara giggled, the dimple in her cheek deepening. "Thank you. And, now that you're here, you may as well help me clean."

"I don't think so," the Doctor sniffed ungraciously. "The TARDIS is just outside. I'll go wait for you."

"No you won't, because if you leave again I'll bake you a soufflé," Clara replied in a singsong voice.

The Doctor's face paled. He knew what that meant. "Okay. I'll stay."

She smiled at him and got to her knees, crouching in front of the box filled with breakables. The first thing she lifted out of it was a mirror - still beautiful, despite the thick film of dust that covered it. Clara unconsciously wiped the mirror's surface, admiring its intricate gold border.

Then she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the newly cleaned glass, and her breath hitched.

There were lines on her face - wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, frown lines on her forehead - faint, but there all the same. Clara stared at herself in surprise. Those lines hasn't been there the last time she looked in the mirror.

But when _was_ the last time she'd looked in the mirror?

She was only twenty-six - far too young to be showing any signs of age. She had spent so much time on the TARDIS that time had no meaning for her anymore. It was hard to remember that humans were governed by time, that they eventually had to succumb to it no matter what. Clara had spent her days in a timeless daze, hopping from place to place around the universe, and now time was catching up to her. She was finally remembering that she was growing older every day.

The Doctor crouched down beside her and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Clara never ceased to be amazed at how he always knew what she was feeling. She opened her mouth to lie and say 'nothing', but different words forced themselves onto her tongue, unbidden. "I feel old," she answered.

There was a pause, and Clara knew that the Doctor was debating how to respond. She inwardly kicked herself. _Shut up, Clara. Why did I just say that?_ It was just going to worry him. But it was too late to stop now, so she pressed on. "I just feel that... my life is passing by too quickly. I know everyone says that. But I really mean it. I spend all my time on the TARDIS, I don't even realize that's time passing. I mean, I met you three whole years ago and it feels like yesterday! I feel like I'm leaving everyone on Earth behind. Soon I'll probably be older than my Dad - but for him, I won't even have been gone five minutes... I sometimes wonder if traveling on the TARDIS is the right thing to do."

She glanced up. The Doctor was looking straight at her, but he didn't seem to be seeing her. No, he seemed to be looking into her, into her very soul. His face was heavy and brooding. "It's only right if you think it is," he answered slowly, every syllable fraught with uncertainty, longing, and misery, all at once.

Clara pressed two fingers to her forehead, brushing her dark hair behind her ear with her other hand. "And then sometimes..." she swallowed. "Sometimes I think about what'll happen sixty or seventy years from now. You wouldn't want me anymore, you would want someone young and fresh, and I would be left back here to rot with my head filled with the whole universe..." Her voice died. "Is the pain of being left behind worth all these years of traveling?" She had already been left behind by him today. She couldn't bear the thought of being abandoned forever.

The Doctor now gripped her hands in his, like Clara had done so recently. "Clara, if you think I would ever abandon you, you're a bigger fool than I am," he breathed, his eyes bright with emotion. "I know when I've found someone worth keeping... and you are worth more than all the stars in the sky." He paused, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he added, in a voice so low that Clara could barely hear it, "And you will always be beautiful to me."

Suddenly feeling a surge of love, Clara leaned forward and cupped the Doctor's cheeks, tears of both sorrow and joy swimming in her eyes. For one heart-stopping moment, the Doctor thought that she was about to kiss him.

Actually, Clara's plan _had_ been to kiss him. But then she slowly removed her hands, her fingers brushing against his stubbly cheeks, and sat back on her feet, regarding him with a tinge of sadness. She couldn't kiss him - not yet. Not while she still remembered kissing her last Doctor, not while she still remembered the promises they had whispered to each other when no one else was there. No. It was too painful.

She didn't even know if this Doctor felt the same way that she did. She had known him for so long, but she still couldn't tell if he loved her like she loved him; if he would even tolerate her kissing. There was still so much to learn about the Doctor, and that was why Clara couldn't kiss him. A kiss was an intimate thing, a token of affection that you shared with those closet to you. But a kiss couldn't just be given, it also had to be received. And Clara didn't know if the Doctor was ready to receive it.

If only she knew how ready he was.

The Doctor involuntarily reached for Clara's hand, and then stopped himself. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Cleaning. There's cleaning."

"Yeah," Clara murmured, her face unfocused. "Cleaning. Erm - I'll go make some tea, and then we can get back to it."

The Doctor tilted his head, scrutinizing his petite companion. Every aspect of her face, every way in which she expressed her emotions, was so easily recognizable to him now that he knew exactly what she was feeling without even having to think. He could tell by her slightly upturned eyebrows, lowered eyes, and the way she was currently biting her lower lip that she was reluctant to clean.

The Doctor had a better idea.

He sprang to his feet and offered Clara a hand. She stared up at his imposing, majestic figure and at the black coat swirling around his knees. "Where are you going?"

"To hell with cleaning," the Doctor snapped. "We're going to Paris. Late 1800's. Coffee on the Seine."

A slow smile spread across Clara's lips. "That sounds way better than cleaning." She raised her eyebrow as a thought struck her. "But hang on... I've got to come back and finish it at some point."

The Doctor shuffled his feet. "About that... I've been thinking it's time for me to let you go."

"What?" Clara yelped. "After all you just told me about never abandoning me?!"

"No, no, not like that," he hastened to reassure her. "I was just thinking about what you said about leaving everyone on Earth behind... and I think you should stay here during the week." As Clara opened her mouth to protest, the Doctor quickly continued. "I think we should only travel together on weekends. That way you still get to teach and shop and do all that boring human stuff." Even as he said this, he already knew that as soon as she left he would take the TARDIS straight to the next weekend. He couldn't survive five days without Clara. But he wanted to make sure that she was able to balance Earth-life with Doctor-life. In his experience, humans needed their silly little human habits to survive.

Clara stared at the wall, thinking hard. Finally her gaze flickered to the Doctor. "Exactly how long is a weekend?" she asked.

The Doctor grinned. She had found the loophole, as he had known she would. "As long as you like."

Clara's eyes gleamed. "Then we have a deal."

"Good." The Doctor slid his fingers into hers and pulled her to her feet. "Then Paris awaits. And afterwards you can come finish your cleaning."

"You mean we can come and finish my cleaning," Clara corrected mischievously. "And if you're lucky I'll even make you dinner."

"That must be the worst kind of luck in the world," the Doctor grunted.

Clara rapped his forehead. "Behave yourself."

"You behave yourself. I don't have behavioral issues. You're the short grumpy one, not me."

"Says the man who has a permanent scowl etched into his forehead," Clara teased him, elegantly kicking boxes aside to make a path to the living room. "You can hardly talk. And you're being rude right now. Do you want to debate this? Because you know I'll win."

The Doctor held up his hands in surrender. "No debating. We have a date in Paris."

"A date?" Clara repeated. "Getting serious, eh?"

His face reddened. "Clara Oswald, that's not what I meant and you know it."

She smiled. "Just teasing. Let's go."

The Doctor couldn't resist muttering "Allons-y" under his breath as he followed her out to the TARDIS.

 **Some of you may have noticed that my recent chapters have contained a lot of Eleventh Doctor mentions, as well as tension between the Twelfth Doctor and Clara. This is intentional. I promise I am not randomly trying to break your heart. This all had its purpose, and you will quickly find out what the purpose is in the next chapter! So you have that to look forward to. The next chapter will be kind of the climax of the story.**

 **Thanks for reviewing! See you in a month.**


	25. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

**First of all: yes, the name of this chapter is totally a Phantom of the Opera reference:)**

 **Secondly: HI, I'M FINALLY BACK! And I'm back with my longest chapter yet! Sorry for the long wait! After our exchange student left, I was really busy catching up with school and stuff, so I hardly had any time to write. Anyway, here is the thanks-for-50-reviews chapter that I've been promising for a while! It took a while to write, mainly because I really wanted to get it right. I'm both nervous and excited about sharing this... the situation I wrote about is the kind of situation that has to be handled really carefully, and I'm not sure I did it right. Also, this chapter is probably a bit more lovey-dovey than the others - in fact, if you don't ship Whoufflé or Whouffaldi, you probably won't read this.**

 **Oops. Spoilers, sweeties. Better just keep my mouth shut and let you get on with reading. Thanks for reading my stories, and please review to tell me how I did! (And thanks to all of you for fifty reviews!)**

"No peeking," the Doctor murmured. "Don't forget."

Clara rolled her eyes, despite the fact that the Doctor was covering them with his hand. "Okay, first of all, you've already told me that four times. And second, I couldn't peek even if I wanted to. Your hand is over my eyes, remember?"

The Doctor's curly grey hair brushed against her cheeks as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Hush," he breathed. "We're going out now."

Clara stifled a laugh into the crook of her elbow as the Doctor began to guide her out of the TARDIS, a protective arm wrapped around her petite frame so that he could steer her around obstacles. A gentle creak sounded as the Doctor nudged the TARDIS door open. "You can open your eyes now." There was an eager smile lurking in his voice, and Clara knew that he was excited for her to see what he had to show her.

But there was something else in his voice too, something sad and wistful. Clara had learned to read the Doctor's voice, every aspect of his low Scottish brogue, like a book. She could tell exactly how he was feeling just by listening to the low, rich tones of his voice. And right now, he was in pain.

But before she could help him, she had to know where she was. So Clara slowly cracked her eyelids open, expecting to see a stunning beach or a planet with ten suns.

Instead, she found herself standing in her very own living room.

Clara's mouth dropped open as all her romantic fantasies of an oceanfront dinner in front of the sunset vanished. "My flat," she stated in a voice slightly hoarse with shock.

"Last time I checked, yes," the Doctor countered, stepping out next to her and placing his elbow on her shoulder.

Clara quickly shook off his arm and whirled around to face him, her dark hair curtaining around her face. "Oi!"

The Doctor's smile quickly melted. His hedgy eyebrows drew together. "What now?"

"Why the bloody hell have you brought me to my flat?" Clara demanded in a clipped tone. "You actually told me to dress up, okay? You said you had a surprise for me!" She indicated her flowing red dress. "I thought we were going somewhere nice! And you just brought me to my flat?!"

Realization dawned in the Doctor's eyes. "Clara, it's not where we are that's important, it's when," he told her soothingly. "And I do have a surprise for you. Come on now, what day is it?"

Still grumpy, Clara crossed her arms and turned away. "How should I know? Just cos you have a freakishly good sense of time doesn't mean we all do."

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, it's October 6th, 2013."

"Wow, what an exciting day," she fired back snarkily. "Just brilliant."

"Will you keep your voice down? You'll get caught. Also, don't eat any pears; they're squishy."

"By whom, the police?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

All of a sudden there was a loud sniffling sound from the bedroom. Clara froze and slowly turned her head towards the direction of the noise, a vague memory surfacing in her mind. October 6th... hadn't she been sick that day? "Doctor," she murmured, "is that... me? Making that noise?"

No response was forthcoming. She glanced over her shoulder.

The Doctor was gone, and the TARDIS door was closed. Clara muttered some choice words under her breath - he'd left her on her own again. She jiggled the door, but it refused to open. "Doctor, let me in," she hissed. "Right now."

The TARDIS's engines hummed with amusement, and Clara gave it the evil eye. "Shut up, you," she snapped. "Just because your owner is being an arse doesn't mean you have to be."

It was no use. The Doctor evidently wasn't going to let her in.

She growled in frustration and slumped against the blue wood. Great. Now she was trapped in her own flat with a past version of herself. And what was his warning about the pears for? Some surprise this was.

And then the doorbell rang.

Clara froze again for the second time in as many minutes, internally debating whether or not she should answer the door. Wouldn't it break the laws of time if she did so when her past self was supposed to be sick?

The problem was suddenly decided for her as the person outside began to hammer on the door with their fists. "Clara, open up, I haven't got all day," an impatient but strongly familiar male voice shouted.

Clara gasped, and tears welled in her eyes. That voice. She knew that voice. She know it so well, although she hadn't heard it in a very long time.

All of a sudden the events of October 6, 2016 came roaring back into her head. He'd planned to take her somewhere special, she'd been too sick even to get out of bed and answer the door, and he'd gone away disappointed.

But now Clara had a second shot at things. Now she had one last chance to see her beautiful Chin Boy, one last evening. This was obviously why the Doctor had dropped her off in her flat and left her. For someone so surly and grumpy, the Doctor was surprisingly perceptive: he must have known that Clara wanted to see her first Doctor again, and had taken it into his hands to do something about it.

So that was why his voice had been so sad. Perhaps the Doctor felt that when Clara looked at him, her gaze was clouded by memories of the man he used to be.

That was true, in many ways. And it was so, so untrue, in many others.

But Clara didn't have time to worry about the Doctor. No, she'd just been given one last night with her clumsy, floppy-haired Time Lord, and she was going to use it wisely.

So she flattened her hand against the TARDIS and pressed her head to its smooth blue wood, allowing her silky bangs to fall around her forehead. "Thank you," she murmured, hoping the Doctor could hear her. "Thank you, Doctor. This is..." her breath caught as a single tear of bittersweet joy trickled down her cheek. "This is the best gift you could have given me."

Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor bowed his head, his eyes red with unshed tears. He had made Clara happy, and her happiness was the most precious thing in the world to him. Now she could see her first Doctor one last time.

But this new body, this new regeneration, loved Clara in a way that the last one never could. And the Doctor sometimes doubted whether Clara would ever know that.

He sighed, his lanky frame suddenly bent beneath the weight of countless troubles and sorrows. He had made Clara happy, yes. But now he was doomed to be broken by his own pain.

Back outside the TARDIS, Clara pressed a quick kiss to the wood and then walked over to the front door, unable to stop her knees from trembling. She reached out a shaking hand and quickly opened the door, not allowing herself to hesitate.

The Doctor was standing on the doorstep, whistling a cheery tune as he waited for the door to open, his hands crossed behind his back. He beamed widely at Clara as she swung the door open. "Ah, Clara! There you are!" His wide-set green eyes, overshadowed by his thick forehead, twinkled happily at her. His thick, dark hair flopped over his forehead in the same unruly fashion as Clara remembered, gelled to perfection, shining in the light from outside. The Doctor's eyes widened as he took in Clara's outfit. "You look... erm... lovely," he complimented her uncertainly.

A lump rose in Clara's throat as she stared at his purplish bow tie, and her eyes swam with tears. He was back. Her Doctor was really back.

The Doctor's grin faded, and he stepped over the threshold and placed a warm hand on Clara's cheek. His hand, which was unusually large against her small body, felt familiar and comforting. "What's wrong?" he asked, his deep but surprisingly soft voice resonating through the air. His intense gaze bored into Clara's very soul as he leaned closer to her, his square nose brushing her petite one. "Are you alright?"

Clara reached a trembling hand to his face and pressed it against his skin, the tips of her fingers trailing along his barely visible eyebrows, along the traces of stubble that lined his wide, angular jaw, along his smooth quiff and large ears. "You're here," she murmured. "You're really here." Before the Doctor could say anything she threw her arms around him and leaned hard against his chest, the comforting beats of his two hearts pounding against her ears.

The Doctor awkwardly flailed his arms in the air, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched for an escape route, before resigning himself to the hug and somewhat embarrassedly sliding his arms around her back. He forgot his misgivings as he breathed in the sweet vanilla-and-raspberries scent of her hair. "My Clara," he sighed, the tips of his bowtie tickling her neck as he planted a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "Where else would I be but here with you?" His eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her.

Clara suddenly pulled back, her eyes alight with reckless excitement, her wistful sadness having vanished in the face of her happiness. "Tell me, how long has it been since you saw me last?"

The Doctor counted on his fingers. "Two days. Give or take a few weeks."

"How can you take a few weeks from two days?" Clara countered, already back to her practical self. She was surprised that she still remembered her playful habit of bantering with this Doctor. The Twelfth Doctor didn't approve of bantering at all. She thought she'd forgotten how to do it.

"Quite easily if you're me," the Doctor answered, the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin as he spread his hands out in a slightly self-satisfied manner. "Think of it this way: it's like taking a few inches of height off a person who hardly has any."

Clara recognized this as a jibe and swatted the elbow of his dark purple, knee-length tweed jacket. "Oi!"

The Doctor held his hands up in surrender. "Sorry. How about I make up for it with... these!" With a flourish he reached into his pocket and pulled out his sonic screwdriver.

Clara stared at it in bewilderment. "What?"

His cheeks flushed. "Wrong thing, hang on." Stuffing the screwdriver back in, he rooted around in his bigger-on-the-inside pocket for a while before finally producing a bouquet of red flowers with a pleased "Aha!"

They were wilted and drooping. The Doctor's smile faded. "They were fresh when I got them, really."

"You sure know how to treat a girl," Clara told him sarcastically.

Seeming ashamed, the Doctor rocked his feet back and forth and twiddled his thumbs, his hair falling over his eyes. "Clara..." he began.

She placed a finger to his lips and looked deeply into his eyes. "Shh. It's okay. I appreciate the effort."

His playful, childish demeanor returned in an instant along with his signature wide smile as he tossed the bouquet over his shoulder in an effort to pretend it didn't exist. "Then shall we move along?"

"Always," Clara grinned, sliding her arm into his.

The Doctor adjusted his bow tie, cast a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror on the wall, and beamed at himself, liking what he saw. "Snazzy," he complimented himself, wiggling his nonexistent eyebrows. "You handsome devil." There was a tiny smile on his lips as he brushed imaginary flakes of dust off his jacket.

Clara rolled her eyes and tugged him away. "You look fine. At least you made the effort to look nice by wearing something other than tweed, though I do wish you could've ditched the bow tie. Now come on."

"Geronimo," the Doctor agreed, winking at her as the two of them walked out of Clara's flat.

Neither of them noticed a pair of soft blue eyes watching them from behind the curtain in Clara's flat.

The Doctor and Clara approached the TARDIS hand in hand, beaming at each other. As the Doctor came to a halt in front of his beloved time machine, he pointed a stern finger at it, his forehead crinkled adorably. "Now, you be nice to Clara, d'you hear? And you, Clara, be nice to the TARDIS. I don't want you two fighting tonight, eh?"

"Got it," Clara confirmed. "I'll be nice if she is." The TARDIS emitted a groaning sort of noise, and Clara frowned at it. "Enough of that."

The Doctor shook his head fondly and pushed the door open. "In you come," he said to Clara, smoothing his hair back over his forehead.

She lifted up the hem of her dress and followed him in.

Tears rose in her eyes. This TARDIS was so familiar, and yet so different. There was the same angular console she remembered; the same blue-orange lighting... she's forgotten how much she missed this.

Clara was shaken out of her reverie as a warm hand brushed against her forehead. "Clara, are you sure you're all right?" the Doctor asked, his deep-set eyes wide with concern. "Have you got a fever? Or, you know, some... womany thing?"

She blinked. "Some what?"

His cheeks were bright red. "I don't know, never mind, forget I said it. I was just worried."

"I'm fine," she promised him. "I was just a little sad."

The Doctor's eyes nervously darted from side to side. "Why, was it something I said?" He was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, like he always did when he was worried that he had made Clara either mad or sad (although mad was more worrisome, because it was usually rather dangerous for his face).

A soft smile touched her lips, not quiet enough to dent her cheek inwards. "No, don't worry. I was just thinking."

"Always a dangerous pastime. Well, if you're me, anyway -" He spread out his arms. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Clara lied.

The expression on the Doctor's face didn't change at all, but his demeanor seemed to soften. "You know," he murmured in a low, halting voice, "our time together won't ever end. Not ever. We'll always be together, you and me, traveling through the stars. We're seared onto each other's hearts now. We can't be separated." Something undefinable and indescribable glinted in the depths of his eyes, something powerful and so, so sad. "You and me, Clara," he continued, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You and me."

Clara couldn't help but marvel at how incredibly perceptive he was, when he wasn't being incredibly childish.

Then, suddenly, the Doctor squeezed her hands and spun around, his tweed coat flying behind him. "So... let's get a move on!" he shouted, his voice ringing with flew around the TARDIS console, toggling various switches and pulling buttons. "Come on, Sexy!" he bellowed. "Do your thing!"

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Why, thank you."

The Doctor's immaculately styled hair seemed to quiver with indignation. "What... I wasn't... I was talking to... Ugh! Stop it!" His face was wrinkled with disgust.

She giggled. "Make me."

He flushed even more. "I said stop it!"

Clara darted over to him and grabbed his arm. "Where are we going?"

Relieved to have something else to talk about, the Doctor slammed his hand down on the final lever. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Clara knew where she was as soon as she stepped out of the door.

She was standing on a cobblestoned street, surrounded by horses and people alike. The Eiffel Tower rose in the distance, silhouetted by the setting sun. A jumble of low buildings with sloping roofs stretched as far as the eye could see.

Clara's breath hitched. She had always wanted to come here.

Behind her, the Doctor grinned to himself at her stunned reaction and leaned against the doorframe. "Paris, 1894," he announced. "Half an hour from sunset. And..." he held up a finger, allowing the breeze to wash over it. "September 29th."

Clara's eyes were twinkling with excitement. "Can we go explore?"

The Doctor shrugged, his shoulders rolling beneath his jacket. "If you like. But we're mainly here to eat. There's a lovely place here called... well, I don't quiet remember. Don't know where it is either, as a matter of fact," he added as an afterthought. "We'll have to find it ourselves; that should be fun." He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

Clara seemed dubious. "Is the water even clean? Is it safe to eat food from the 1800's? Isn't there, like, a rat problem or something?"

"All of those are very good questions which I don't have the answer to," the Doctor beamed.

"You should maybe do you your research a little more often," she chided him.

He deflated. "I should, shouldn't I."

"That would be nice." Clara started walking away, her vibrant red dress swirling around her heels. "Now come on, let's go find that restaurant! I suppose the TARDIS will be fine over here?"

The Doctor waved a hand airily. "She's blending right in. Don't worry about it."

The TARDIS was sticking out like a sore thumb.

His smile faded a little bit. "I think."

He caught up to Clara and began walking at her side, taking in all the sights. Various smells wafted through the air and his big nose absorbed all of them. He sniffed appreciatively as he scented crepes. The Seine's surface twinkled invitingly in front of him, its surface painted with streaks of orange and red from the sun. All in all, it was a pretty picture.

"So tell me," Clara muttered in his ear - or, at least, as close to his ear as she could manage with her limited height. "The TARDIS makes everything we say come out as French, yeah? So what would happen if I tried to speak French?"

The Doctor laughed. "I had a friend who tried that once. She tried to speak Latin to a Roman. It came out as Celtic, apparently."

Feeling emboldened, Clara marched up to a vendor sitting on the curb, cleared her throat, and said, "Parlez-vous Francais?", which was the only thing she could remember from her high school French class.

The man eyed her up and down. "Bloody English tourist. With one of those bloody Scottish accents too. Sorry, luv, I don't speak English," he grunted.

Clara smiled doubtfully and beat a hasty retreat. "So, French apparently sounds like English. With a Scottish accent," she related to the Doctor.

He beamed delightedly. "Really? That's brilliant, really brilliant. Almost makes me want to start speaking to them in Judoon or something."

"In what?"

"In Judoon."

"Clarification, please."

"They're - they're like -" the Doctor flailed his hands helplessly as he tried to find words to describe them. "They're like big great space rhinos. They're sort of like an intergalactic police force."

"Like Buzz Lightyear."

"Yes, like - what? No, not at all! For one thing, Judoon can't fly. And their weapons are actually real. Very real. You don't want to be a criminal when they're around."

"I'll bet you have been," Clara countered mischievously.

His lips curled in a sly smile. "Of course."

The Eiffel Tower stayed to their right as they turned left onto a street that seemed to be hosting an open-air marketplace. Clara giggled delightedly, pointing at an artist with a beret and a curly mustache who was drawing the Eiffel Tower. "Oh my stars, look. You read about people like that all the time in books, but you never think they're actually real..." Her teeth gleamed as she laughed.

The Doctor studied her inconspicuously, his mouth smiling, but his eyes narrowed. Two other faces identical to Clara's flashed through his mind. Oswin, and Victorian Clara, had laughed and smiled very much like this before they'd died. He wouldn't give up his time with Clara for anything, but... he lived in constant fear that she was going to die like her lookalikes had. It could come at any time. He hated not knowing what was going to happen to her. He hated not knowing anything about her life.

More than anything, he hated not knowing who she was.

Little did the Doctor know that the Clara who was with him had already become the Impossible Girl; had already stepped into his time stream; had already known everything that the Doctor was currently wondering for over a year.

Time was wobbly-wobbly that way.

Clara suddenly tugged at his hand, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Come on, let's go take a look at all this stuff!"

The Doctor smiled and patted her hand. "Of course."

Clara attracted many admiring looks from passersby, but she didn't notice any of them. She had eyes only for the Doctor (and vice versa, though he never would have admitted it). Hand and hand, they strolled through the marketplace, peering at whatever caught their fancy.

The Doctor beamed as he caught sight of a table selling hatwear. His face fell slightly as he saw that there were no fezzes, but lit up again as his eyes settled on a black beret.

Clara sharply smacked his hand away as he reached for the beret. "No. No berets. You'll look ridiculous."

"But Claraaaaa!" he whined, his expressive green eyes seeming hurt. "I haven't had a good hat in so long!"

"The bow tie's enough," she assured him. "Now come on."

He cast a sorrowful glance back at the beret. "Sorry," he whispered furtively to it. "Clara's being mean."

"Stop talking to the hat," she ordered him, wrapping her hand firmly around his tweed coat.

They soon came to the end of the marketplace. The bottommost tip of the sun was just sinking behind the buildings across the river. "Now what?" Clara wanted to know.

"Well, we're still on for dinner, aren't we?" he asked nervously. "Or - do you have something at home you need to get back to..."

Clara threw her head back and laughed heartily. "God, you're so paranoid. Of course we're still on for dinner. I was just alluding to the fact that your failure to do your research is now requiring us to scour Paris until we find the restaurant."

The Doctor held a finger in the air and nodded, his eyes facing thoughtfully upward and his mouth slightly downturned. "There is that," he conceded.

"Have you remembered the name yet?" Clara asked hopefully, feeling a sense that he probably hadn't but deciding it was worthwhile to check.

Her suspicions were confirmed as the Doctor slapped himself on the forehead and groaned. "Stupid Doctor," he berated himself. Then his brightened. "Wait, maybe I can try anyway..."

Before Clara could call him back, he adjusted his bowtie and swaggered over to a grocery-laden couple. "Excuse me," he greeted them brightly, bounding on the balls of his feet as he always did when he was excited, "do you know where I can find a restaurant? Probably a brick building somewhere, in Paris, with a neon sign? Ooh, that would be good. I like neon signs; neon is good. Also, it probably has really good food..."

Clara facepalmed and hurried over to his side in an attempt to steer him away. But the Doctor would not be deterred. "It's on the Seine somewhere, with a view of the - the - whatever that weird curvy building is called," he finished lamely, pointing vaguely to the right.

"The Eiffel Tower," Clara supplied helpfully, smiling at the man and the woman.

"Yes, sorry, that. There are so many like it if you've been to all the places I have; it's hard to keep track... Anyway, it has a view of the Eiffel Tower, and it's probably called 'Gustave's' or 'Claude's' or some other French thing... any idea?" he concluded, his eyes bright with cheerfulness, completely ignorant of how rude and stereotypical he had just been.

Both of the people seemed to be getting more confused by the minute, but the woman seemed slightly more on top of things. "Yes, Gustave's," she answered after collecting her wits. "You can't miss it. Take a left and two rights and there it is." She hurried off with her husband without a backwards glance, evidently put out by the Doctor's odd behavior.

"Thanks!" he called after her. "Cheerio!" Turning to Clara, he beamed and said,"Did you hear that? I guessed it! On my first try!"

"Well done," she replied good-naturedly. "Great. Now can we please go get a bloody bite to eat?"

"Language!" he chided her, horror-struck.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Your snogbox has been more badly behaved than that before."

Fifteen minutes later, the Doctor and Clara were standing in front of a vaguely triangular brick building with a curved front. Candles glittered cheerfully in all of the windows, since the sun had, by now, fully set. The Eiffel Tower was visible across the river in the distance, looming over the slanting rooftops that surrounded it.

"See, Clara?" the Doctor beamed, proudly smoothing his hair over his forehead. "I'm great at finding things."

"Sure - you only need a couple of directions and then you can find things all by yourself," Clara smirked, guiding him over to the front entrance.

A mustachioed man was waiting by the door, clutching a stack of menus. "Table for two, please," Clara announced firmly.

He smiled at them. "Yes, a table right on the river for this lovely young couple, eh?"

The Doctor blushed and opened his mouth to say, "We're not a couple", as he had said so many times before, and then thought better of it. After all, what other word could be used to describe him and his Impossible Girl?

Clara was evidently thinking the same thing. A soft smile touched the corners of her lips. "Yes, please," she replied, unobtrusively squeezing the Doctor's hand.

The waiter led them upstairs and gestured to a table at the edge of the rooftop balcony. "All yours." He deposited two menus on the table and left after pulling out the two chairs for them.

"You know, this is really nice," Clara sighed, staring out at the twinkling lights of Paris and the rippling water. "No monsters. No aliens."

The Doctor's eyes scrunched up as he grinned at her. "Except me," he murmured.

"Except you," she conceded, smiling fondly, her cheek dimpling.

The waiter returned a few minutes later. "May I get you anything to drink?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to say 'no' and Clara firmly cut across him. "Two glasses of wine, please," she answered firmly.

He dipped his head and strode away. The Doctor stared at Clara in horror. "Clara!"

"What? Being a little tipsy never hurt anyone."

"But I hate wine!" he complained, his rounded chin becoming square as he pouted.

She giggled. "I know. I only got you a glass so I could drink yours after I finish mine."

He wagged a disapproving finger. "You're disgustingly devious."

"I learned it all from you," Clara replied brightly, picking up her menu and scanning it.

The Doctor tutted (with just a hint of pride) and scooped up his own menu, flipping it open and jamming it right up to his nose as though he couldn't read it from a distance. A tuft of floppy hair poking over its edge was all that could be seen of his head. "Hmm... snails," he read. "Delightful. And let me see, we have lamb, and - what's this? I can't read it... am I reading upside down again?" The Doctor swung the menu downwards and peered at it again. "Nope, it was right way up the first time."

Clara was too absorbed in the menu too pay him much attention. After several minutes of deliberation, she settled on a salad.

The waiter made a smooth reappearance just as she set down her menu. What a well-timed waiter, she thought admiringly. The man deftly poured her and the Doctor a glass of wine. "What can I get you two to eat?"

They quickly placed their orders. The Doctor, being the Doctor, had decided to order the thing that he couldn't read. He always did love a mystery. Soon the waiter left, leaving Clara and the Doctor alone with the sprawling entirety of Paris and the gentle rushing of the Seine.

The Doctor smiled at his petite companion and placed his large fists on the table. Clara wrapped her small hands around his and squeezed them, looking into his deep-set green eyes. Her eyes lingered over the little arrows at the corners of his lips when he grinned, the faint wisps of hair that made up his eyebrows, the blocky, handsome, well-defined nose that dominated his face, the square chin that had been the inspiration for so many nicknames, the floppy quiff that gleamed in the light, the ruffled edges of his bowtie. These things were so, so familiar, and she had missed them all far more than she'd realized...

And then all of a sudden there were three plates in front of them, along with a glittering candle that hadn't been there before but somehow made the atmosphere much more romantic.

Their food was already here? Clara felt slightly disturbed by the fact that she and the Doctor had apparently just spent at least twenty minutes gazing into each other's eyes.

He evidently felt the same way, because he spent a few seconds dubiously chewing on his lip before dropping her hands and clearing his throat. "Erm. Dinner." His tone made it evident that he had been just as starstruck by Clara as she had been by him.

Clara unobtrusively glanced around the rooftop terrace. No one else as there - the two of them were alone.

The Doctor beamed at her, picked up his napkin, and tucked it into the collar of his jacket, making sure it didn't touch his bow tie. "Bon appétit," he proclaimed, rather louder than necessary.

Clara stared dubiously at the Doctor's meal. "... If you say so," she responded uncertainly. His food looked completely inedible - some thin hunks of mystery meat swimming in a thick sauce.

"I do say so," he answered smilingly, not picking up on the doubt in her tone. The Doctor carved himself a slice of meat and placed it delicately in his mouth. His face then turned a delicate shade of green. Eyes popping, he opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and allowed the food to dribble back onto the dish with a wet slurp. "Ergh!" He smacked his lips, revulsion written all over his face. "I don't know what that is,but it's disgusting!"

Clara couldn't resist a small giggle. "I could have told you that was going to happen."

His face still scrunched up in disgust, the Doctor hastily reached for his glass of wine and downed it all in one gulp. Then his eyes went even wider, and he spat the wine out all over the table, narrowly missing Clara's hands. "Ugh! I forgot how much I hate this stuff."

Shaking her head reproving it, Clara picked up his glass and placed it next to hers. "Doctor, I can't take you anywhere nice."

Muttering darkly about French food, the Doctor reached for a slice of the baguette in the middle of the table. He stuffed it in his mouth and nodded approvingly. "Now thish ish good food," he drawled, gesticulating wildly as he ate.

Clara groaned at his lack of table manners, and the Doctor determinedly ignored her. He pleadingly eyed her artfully arranged salad. "Could I please have some?" he asked hopefully, giving her poppy-dog eyes.

She very maturely stuck her tongue out at him. "If you must."

The Doctor grinned widely and deftly swung his chair around the table so that he was sitting right next to her, his long legs sprawled on the ground. "Thanks, Clara!" The tip of his square chin brushed her hair as he bent down to eat.

Between the salad and the bread, the two of them finished their meal in ten minutes. Clara leaned back into her seat and rested her head against his firm shoulder. "What do you think?" she murmured into his tweed coat. "Dessert?"

"Always," the Doctor responded warmly, his deep voice vibrating through the air. "D'you think they've got fish fingers and custard?" He entwined his fingers in her thick dark hair, marveling at how well it reflected the light.

"No," she answered bluntly, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Shame," he sighed, tipping his head sideways so his floppy hair curled over Clara's forehead.

The waiter reappeared and smoothly gathered up their plates. "Will you be having dessert?"

"Absolutely," Clara responded. "Doctor, what do you think?"

"Banana bread," he said without hesitation. "Banana bread is good."

She cringed. "How about something a little more... gourmet."

The Doctor pouted. "Whatever."

Clara's eyes lit up. "We'd like a chocolate soufflé, please," she told the waiter firmly, recalling that soufflés had been listed in the dessert section of the menu.

The waiter winked. "A good choice."

The Doctor patted Clara's head. "That was a good choice! This will be my first soufflé."

"What do you mean?" Clara demanded. "I've made you soufflés before."

His face fell as he realized he'd said the wrong thing. "I meant my first good soufflé," he explained, trying to dig himself out of the pit he had created but inadvertently digging himself deeper in.

Clara's face clouded like thunder. "You, sir, are heading into dangerous territory."

He winced. "I am?"

This probably would have become a full-fledged argument if the waiter had not reappeared at that very moment with a steaming chocolate soufflé. He set it on the table with a flourish, paused to rearrange the flickering candle, and bowed. "Enjoy."

Clara stared at the soufflé, her mouth a small 'O' of surprise. "It's perfect," she muttered.

"Well, we are in France," the Doctor replied. He picked up his fork and cut the soufflé into two very uneven halves.

Clara swatted his hand as he proceeded to drag the larger half into his plate. "Oi! Be fair." She drew the plate back and sliced off a portion of the large piece. "There. Much better."

The Doctor stabbed a small piece of soufflé with his fork and proffered it to Clara. "I want you to have the first bite," he murmured, his voice low and loving. He placed three fingers under her chin. "Come on." Touched by his sweetness, Clara opened her mouth and allowed him to slide the fork inside.

She had to admit that the soufflé not only looked but tasted perfect. It was just like her mum's. She closed her eyes as the last morsel slid down her throat. "Mmmmmm."

The Doctor watched her anxiously. "Was it good?"

"The best," Clara promised, cupping her small hand around his cheek and tracing her fingers along the very faint stubble that covered them. "Thank you."

He grinned, happy to eat now that Clara had given the soufflé her stamp of approval. "Great!"

And then, to Clara's horror, he picked up his piece with his hands and took a huge bite, smearing chocolate all over his prominent chin.

Five minutes later, the Doctor let out a huge groan. "That was delicious." He held up his chocolaty fingers, inspected them for a second, and then shoved them in his mouth and began to lick them earnestly.

"So. Money," Clara stated, watching him wipe his newly-licked fingers with a napkin.

"Ah, yes. Have you got any?"

"What?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Well, you know..."

She gave him a death glare.

"I'm a time traveler!" he protested. "I don't have money!"

Clara groaned and banged her head on the table. "And how am I supposed to have nineteenth-century French currency?" she snapped acidly.

"Good point," the Doctor conceded. "Wait, hang on..." He fiddled around in his pockets and produced his sonic screwdriver. "There's a setting on here somewhere..." The sonic emitted various beeps of different pitches as the Doctor began to adjust the settings. Finally a low-pitched hum rang out. "Aha! Found it! Never used before, I just make everyone else pay for me..." The Doctor pointed his sonic at a napkin, which rippled briefly and then faded away, only to be replaced by a jumble of coins and notes.

Clara stared at the heap of money in bewilderment. "What just happened?"

"Glamour setting," the Doctor explained proudly, jamming his device back in his pocket. "Makes things look like what they aren't."

"And... how long does the illusion last for?" Clara inquired practically.

His smile faded. "Good question. Erm, I have no idea, really. So we should probably get out of here now."

They tiptoed down the steps, using the shadows to conceal themselves, and were fortunately able to make their way out of the restaurant without getting caught.

The Doctor eyed Clara with new appreciation. "Did I ever tell you you look lovely?"

"You did, but I don't mind you saying it again," she smirked, smiling mischievously.

He laughed and fondly draped an arm around her shoulders. "So where to now? We could go trick-or-treating," he suggested hopefully.

Clara giggled. "Firstly, it's not Halloween. Secondly, do they even have trick-or-treating in the 1800's?"

"We could find out," the Doctor replied, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Clara's smile faded. Another face flashed through her mind: blue eyes, gray hair, an aquiline nose. A harsh face, but a beautiful one. A harsh man, but a beautiful one. And that man was waiting for her. "Actually..." she cleared her throat. "Actually, I should get back to my flat."

The Doctor's voice was uncharacteristically soft and subdued, as it always was when he knew someone was hurting but didn't know how to fix it. "Home it is, then."

Fifteen minutes later Clara was standing just inside the doorway of her flat, regarding the Doctor, who was leaning against the doorframe. "What time is it? You haven't brought me back a month late again, have you?"

Flicking his hair out of his eyes, the Doctor checked his watch and beamed. "Nope. In fact, it's about ten minutes after you left."

She sighed with relief, knowing that she hadn't kept the Doctor - the other Doctor - waiting too long.

A pang of fear clutched at Clara's heart. As unobtrusively as possible, she glanced behind her. The Twelfth Doctor's TARDIS was still there, humming softly. Now Clara felt silly. Why would the Doctor have left her behind anyway?

"So..." the Eleventh Doctor twiddled his thumbs, hopefully gazing into her eyes. "I could come in, if you like? We could -"

"No!" Clara yelped, instinctively closing the door a few more inches.

The Doctor drew back, seeming hurt. "Why? Have I got spinach in my teeth?"

A lump rose in her throat as she stared at him. There were too many things fighting to emerge from her mouth; too many things that needed to be said. _You can't come in because it's too dangerous for two Doctors to be together. Because I don't want you to see his TARDIS and realize you regenerate again in your future. Because I don't want to see you be sad. Because every second I spend with you makes my heart break a little more. Because I love you too much._

But Clara couldn't tell him any of those things. And so she simply said, "I'm tired. I should be getting to bed."

The Doctor hesitated, his eyes roving over her squarish nose, her downturned mouth, her graceful eyebrows. His eyes were dark. He knew when his Clara was lying.

And he let it go, not wanting to hurt her any more than she was already hurting. "Okay," he sighed, working his jaw. "That's fine. No coming inside. I've got things to do too. There's a supernova scheduled to happen in the Mercion Galaxy in ten minutes; I've got to hurry if I want to make it, eh?" He smiled at her, just a little too widely.

Clara sniffled. "Yeah."

He took her hand in his. "See you next Wednesday?" he asked gently.

A single tear trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before the Doctor could see it. Answering this question would be the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. And yet she must be brave, for herself, and for the Doctor - both Doctors.

"Yes," Clara replied calmly, her voice far steadier than her mind. "Next Wednesday."

The two of them scrutinized each other for a while, green eyes against brown ones: the Doctor was trying to figure out what was bothering Clara... and Clara was just trying to memorize every detail of his face, because she knew she would never see it again.

All of a sudden, in a flash of inspiration, the Doctor knew what needed to be done. He steeled himself. This was going to take nerve.

Still holding Clara's hand, he leaned down to her height, closed his eyes, and kissed her softly on the lips.

Clara's self-control, which she had been firmly keeping a hold on all evening, rapidly vanished. She slid her hands around his cheeks, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him back, the low thrumming beats of his hearts pounding against her chest. In that moment, nothing else existed for her - just the Doctor and his love and her love, combined into something beautiful and fragile. She focused on the feeling of his skin, the point of his nose as it pressed into her forehead; knowing this moment would pass too quickly and never come again.

And it did. All too soon, the Doctor pulled back, his eyes wide, gasping for air. His hair flopped over his eyes as his mouth hung open. "I just..." He ran his shaking hands through his hair, ruffling it even more than normal. An ecstatic grin spread across the Doctor's face. "Did you see what I did?"

"Yes, and I felt it too," Clara answered dryly, amused despite her misery.

The Doctor beamed, gleefully rubbing his hands together. He looked both embarrassed and proud at the same time, as if he couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to do such a thing.

Still grinning, he turned around to leave... and Clara rushed forwards and threw her arms around him, clinging to him with every fibre of his being. Instantly the Doctor turned around and hugged her back, his bowtie tickling her nose. "Go back to Clara," Clara murmured, far too quietly for the Doctor to hear her. "Go back to your Clara, Doctor, and show her the stars. Please."

It took every bit of willpower she had, but Clara finally managed to let go, reluctantly dropping her hands away from his tweed jacket. She stepped back inside her flat, watching the Doctor with rapidly reddening eyes.

He smiled at her one last time, his green eyes flashing with joy, and disappeared inside the TARDIS.

Clara slowly shut the door as the vworp-vworp of the engines faded away, feeling hollow and empty. Having a taste of her first Doctor's company had just made her yearn for him more.

And then the tears came. Her knees trembling, Clara leaned her head against the doorway and began to cry. The front of her dress was quickly soaked. Her limbs felt like mush; they couldn't seem to support her properly.

Clara turned around and slid to the floor, burying her head in her hands. She continued to sob - real, heartbroken, painful sobbing; the kind of emotion that only someone who has seen too much sorrow can feel. The only other time she had cried this hard was when the Doctor had regenerated.

After a while Clara got up and staggered over to the TARDIS, not wanting to wake up her past self, who was hopefully resting. Red-eyed, mouth trembling, she placed a tentative hand on the TARDIS door.

It swung open immediately. Wiping away tears and hiccoughing miserably - she was sure she must look a mess -Clara stepped inside and closed the door behind her, assailed right away by the gentle hum of the engine.

The Twelfth Doctor was pacing around the console with his hands behind his back, crossed over his velvety waistcoat. He glanced up with a birdlike movement of his head as she entered. "So?" The word hung in the air like a broken promise.

Or like a broken heart.

"It was fine," Clara answered, surprising herself by how nonchalant she sounded. She walked over to the Doctor, her gait still slightly unsteady, and met his gaze. "Just fine."

His sharp blue eyes took in her red eyes and cheeks and the tears that still dribbled down her face. Suddenly he spun around and pulled a lever, setting the TARDIS in motion. "You're crying," he noted, not deigning to look at her, his Scottish brogue low and pronounced.

Suddenly Clara was angry. Very angry. Not at the Doctor, but at the universe in general, for making life in general. And, like all angry people, she chose to take out her temper on the person closest to her. "Yes, I'm crying!" she shouted, her angry Blackpool accent ringing through the TARDIS. "And do you know why? It's because I'm sad! Do you know what 'sad' means, Doctor?" She knew she was being unfair, but she couldn't stop. "Sadness is what happens when you miss someone. And sadness is what happens when you get to see someone you miss again, and then they're taken away from you." She glared at him, her chest heaving, and then continued her tirade. "Why? Why did you let me see him again?! How could you?" Her voice broke. "How could you..."

The Doctor had been watching her silently the whole time, his thick eyebrows creased and his mouth a thin line. Now he began to pace again, not looking at Clara as he spoke. "I knew you'd been thinking about... him... a lot lately," he stated, his voice ragged. "You were looking at pictures of him when you were cleaning your flat. I saw you. I know you miss him, Clara. And so I thought you might want to see him again." He suddenly swung around to face her, his eyes burning with passion. "I knew you loved him more than you would ever love me. It was supposed to be a treat for you - a way for you to see him again! And it wasn't just for you - it was for me too. I wanted you to stop seeing him whenever you looked at me. I'm not him, Clara! I can't be him! I can't love you the same way he did! I just... I just wanted you to see that."

Clara's mouth hung open. She'd had no idea the Doctor had felt like that.

Very slowly and deliberately, she walked over to the Doctor and punched him on the shoulder.

"Ow! Wha-"

"Listen to me," Clara interrupted, her voice low and fierce, but firm. Her tears had dried now. "You great stupid stick insect, if you ever thought I loved him more than you, you're wrong. How dare you accuse me of that! How dare you!"

Stunned, the Doctor opened his mouth to retaliate, but Clara placed a finger on his lips. "Be quiet! You idiot! If I didn't love you, would I still be traveling with you? Would I still put up with your grumpiness and antisocial behavior?" Her eyes flashed. "You listen to me, Doctor, because I'm not saying this again." She paused, and her voice suddenly became far more gentle. "I didn't love him," she whispered, tears shining in her eyes again. "I never did. And I don't love you either. I don't love him _or_ you. I love the _Doctor_."

Then, impulsively, before he could react, Clara firmly shut her eyes, placed her palms on either side of the Doctor's weathered face, leaned in, and kissed him gently with as much love and feeling as she could muster.

The Doctor's eyes popped and his arms hung limply by his sides as he stared, cross-eyed, at Clara's head. He had dreamed about this moment so many times, and now that it was actually happening, he didn't know what to do.

Abruptly Clara stepped back, looking anywhere but at the Doctor. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

The Doctor steeled himself. He couldn't let this opportunity get away from him. He felt his chance slipping away from him, and knew it was time to finally act. So he grabbed her chin and tenderly turned it towards him, looking deep into her beautiful eyes. "Yes," he answered quietly. "Yes, you should have." And, before he could convince himself that he was doing the right thing, the Doctor bent down and kissed her back, his aquiline nose pressed against Clara's forehead.

Clara sank into the kiss, her hands clutching folds of his waistcoat. Suddenly elated, the Doctor picked her up and swung her around, holding her tightly, kissing her all the while. Her short legs rubbed against the hem of his jacket as he hugged her close.

Finally he set her down and pulled away. Clara staggered backwards, her mouth flapping. "Oh," she said weakly. It was the only thing she could think of to say.

The Doctor laughed softly. "I've been wanting to do that for a very long time." To a stranger, the Doctor would look downright grumpy right now, with his thunderous eyebrows, stern frown, and wrinkled forehead. But Clara could read his face. Clara alone could pick up on his emotions just by looking into the depths of his blue-grey eyes. And right now, right now, he was the happiest he'd ever been.

They sank onto the floor, leaning against the TARDIS console. Clara slumped against the Doctor's chest, tracing patterns on his waistcoat, unable to stop smiling. Breathing in the scent of her hair, the Doctor murmured quietly, "You know, I tease you a lot about your eyes and your height, but... I think you're beautiful."

Clara nuzzled deeper into his chest, her legs curled up over the Doctor's knees, by way of response. She didn't want to ruin the movement by speaking.

The Doctor stroked her French-toast hair, his eyebrows creased as he stared vacantly at her rich brown locks. "I'm old, Clara," he continued haltingly, looking both at her and beyond her at the same time. "Old and grey. You deserve more - so much more." An observer would have noticed that his eyes were red and moist.

But there were no observers, save for the TARDIS. Just the Doctor and Clara and the universe. Which meant that it was the perfect time for them to say to each other the things that they had left unsaid for far too long.

Clara cupped his chin with her palm, shaking her head slowly. "Not to me. Never to me. Doctor, you are so much more." The mischievous dent in her cheek reappeared as she smiled warmly. "You have more kindness in you, and more love, than I've got in my little finger," she whispered, tapping his chest with each word, her eyes roving over every inch of his solemn face. "You are beautiful. And handsome. And wonderful." Clara began to stroke his thick grey eyebrows, her lips slightly pursed. "Never say I deserve more, because I deserve far, far less than I've got. I..." she paused. "I'm honored that you chose me to travel with you."

"I couldn't have chosen better," the Doctor replied in a low voice.

Clara's crimson dress fanned out around her heels in vivid folds as she rested her head on the Doctor's lap. "Do you know," she murmured drowsily, "I've wanted to kiss you for a very long time."

The Doctor's mouth twitched in a smile. "I know the feeling," he responded, idly placing his palm on his companion's forehead. "But don't think this will change my behavior in any way," he added hastily. "I'm still not going to obey your bossy commands or let you have the run of the TARDIS or give you permission to make me soufflés. Do you hear?"

But Clara was fast asleep, her lips curled in a tiny smile and her fists still clenching the Doctor's waistcoat. Adorably, soft snores were emanating from her mouth. Her trip with the Eleventh Doctor must have been exhausting. Knowing his whirlwind personality, it was no wonder she was asleep.

Sighing, the Doctor rolled his eyes. "What," he demanded to thin air, "is the point of asserting one's authority if no one is around to listen?"

For a while, he watched the rise and fall of Clara's chest as she breathed. Then, abruptly, he gathered her in his arms and rose to his feet, her small body curled against his chest. She weighed almost nothing.

The Doctor began to walk towards Clara's bedroom. "Make this easy for me, Old Girl," he murmured. "Please. No corridors or mazes."

The TARDIS followed his instructions (albeit with a disapproving, slightly jealous hum). Clara's bedroom door was the first door on the left as soon as the Doctor left the console room. He nudged the door open with his foot and carried Clara to her bed, rolling her gently out of his arms.

Her eyelids opened just a crack. The dim light from outside was reflected in them, turning them a starry gold. Clara stared at him sleepily, her vision slightly unfocused.

The Doctor tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. "Rest," he ordered softly, planting a tender kiss on her forehead. He turned to leave.

Memories rushed through Clara's mind; a bowtie, a gentle caress, a kiss from different lips that belonged to the same man...

No. No, he was gone now. Now her love belonged to someone else - the same man, and yet so, so different. No more reminiscing about the past. She was in the present now. She had made her choice.

"Doctor," Clara called after him. He stopped with his back to her. "I love you." It was the first time she had said those words to him. And it wouldn't be the last.

The Doctor hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, but didn't respond. He slipped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

Only then did he allow the tears to flow freely, the tears of joy that he had been waiting to shed for such a long time. Now, finally, he had someone to love again.

The Doctor pressed his hand to the door and said the words that he hadn't been able to say since Rose had left. "I love you too, my Impossible Girl."

 **Well? What did you guys think? Was Eleven written okay? He's my favorite Doctor, but I've never tried writing him until now. I tried to stay true to his personality in the show, so please tell me if you thought I did a good job. Also, can I just say: SQUEEEE! That Whouffaldi kiss was so fun to write. I feel like this entire story has been leading up to that moment for a really long time. I hope all you Whoufflé and Whouffaldi shippers enjoyed:) And I hope I wrote that moment as delicately as it deserves to be written.**

 **Two more things: First, sorry about the lack of Doctor/Clara banter. That will be back in the next chapter, I promise! And I know I have two prompts waiting, don't worry, I'll get to them as soon as I can. This brings me to my second point: Updates will be pretty sporadic from now on, due to visiting family and loads of schoolwork and testing coming up. Just warning y'all.**

 **Okay, I lied. One more thing: really, all of you, thanks so much for sticking with this story and reviewing. I'd really appreciate some reviews on this chapter, so I know how I did with writing Eleven. It might inspire me to write some more about him in the future:) Thanks again, and GERONIMO!**


	26. Goodbye

Hey all, sorry that I had to do this so suddenly, but I have to leave . Thank you all for being such lovely readers and reviewers. It's been my pleasure writing for you all, particularly the Whouffaldi! :) I wish you all the best!


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